


Witches' Sabbath

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [19]
Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: Case: Neal and Peter call on Dean and Sam Winchester for help when they investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the Dutchman. H/C: fire, curse, angst. Travel: Simsbury, CT. May 2005. #17 in Caffrey Conversation AU. Crossed Lines story #2, a fusion of Supernatural with Caffrey Conversation.





	1. An Ill-Starred Day

_Notes: Witches' Sabbath is the second story in the series Crossed Lines, a fusion of White Collar with Supernatural._ _Although it can be read as a standalone, it will make more sense if read after the first story in the series, Whispers in the Night._ _See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information._

_In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Witches' Sabbath takes place in May 2005 after the events described in Raphael's Dragon. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is thirteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. Additional notes are at the end of the chapter._

* * *

**House in the Woods, New Haven, Connecticut. May 11, 2005. Wednesday morning.**

The sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window signaled the need to depart. With a moan, Maia stroked his face with her fingers, tracing his lips. _Sleep well, Sam. Till tomorrow._

She dissolved his image in her mind and opened her eyes. Folding back the mauve satin sheets with a languorous hand, Maia rose from the bed. She still had plenty of time before she needed to leave for Yale. Before slipping on a rose silk kimono, Maia paused to gaze at her body in the full-length mirror. What would Sam think of her? What would it be like to seduce him in person?

Musing over that delicious idea, she strolled down the oak staircase. She half-expected Electra to be waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.

Maia walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of blood from the crystal decanter. She took her glass into the library where she found Electra bent over the library table. She'd already dressed for the day although she wasn't due at the store for another hour. Maia drew close to see what she was studying so intently. The Goya painting _Witches' Sabbath_. Of course.

Electra turned her head to look at her. Maia's hair was still tousled from the night and she hadn't bothered putting on makeup. Electra smiled knowingly. "Pleasant dreams?"

Maia sank into a velvet chair and stretched out her bare legs. "The best."

"Who was it? The French sculptor?"

Maia nodded. Electra wouldn't be pleased to hear she'd been visiting her new protégé. "Has the time come?"

"Yes. All the preparations have been made."

"Will you go on the journey?"

"No, I ordered Alcyone to be my emissary. She needs something constructive to do." A frown crossed Electra's face. "I've heard disturbing reports recently. Alcyone's grown unfocused." She rose and perched on the armrest of Maia's chair. "Fortunately I don't have to worry about you." She stroked her hair.

"Sending Alcy to New York is hardly a punishment. I could go in her place."

"No, she needs the discipline."

Maia stood up and walked over to the painting. When she'd first seen the version Goya had painted for public display, she was outraged that he'd represented them as old, wizened hags. But Electra was unsympathetic to her complaints. She told Maia she'd insisted that Goya paint them as _guajonas_. Spanish witch-vampires. Really. Electra's sense of humor could be trying.

Maia was beyond annoyed, but Electra was amused by the joke. She'd kept the original painting for her collection. There they were—the sisters in all their radiant beauty. And now their demon-goat would join them.

**Federal Building, New York City. May 13, 2005. Friday morning.**

"The Dutchman's vanished."

Neal liked to think he was not a suspicious man. A broken mirror didn't fill him with terror. He walked under ladders without a second thought. He admired the beauty of black cats with nary a shudder. So when Friday the 13th dawned, he didn't rummage through his cupboard for a rabbit's foot.

But when he walked into the White Collar bullpen that morning to be greeted by Peter with the news of the Dutchman's disappearance, he began to believe that there might be something to the superstition after all.

Curtis Hagen was an art forger and counterfeiter whom the FBI had been pursuing for over a decade. He was so elusive that Peter had dubbed him the Dutchman. Like the Flying Dutchman, he disappeared into the fog after each crime. At long last, thanks to a team effort guided by Neal's own brilliant insights, they'd succeeded in capturing him last month in a warehouse in East Harlem with a stolen nineteenth century bond and a priceless painting by Raphael in his possession. Evidence was seized proving that Hagen was creating forgeries of the painting and selling them off as originals. He was also in the midst of counterfeiting the bond. The case was ironclad. He was incarcerated at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. They'd even succeeded in convincing the judge that he was too much of a flight risk to be released on bail. There was no way Hagen could escape them now.

Wrong.

Or maybe not?

Neal eyed his boss warily. Peter had been known to play practical jokes before. Not many, true. Neal could remember only one time he'd been fooled. That was when Peter had banished him to File Purgatory while the team finished preparations for a surprise party in Neal's honor. But that didn't really count. Peter routinely banished him to File Purgatory. He simply had a justifiable reason that time. "You're not trying to pull my leg, are you? It's Friday the 13th, not April Fools' Day."

But he didn't have to wait for Peter's denial to know this was no joking matter. His grim face made the answer abundantly clear. "The prison director called me this morning. When the guard performed his routine check this morning, he discovered Hagen was missing. There's no explanation for what happened. Hagen was recorded in his cell during the night check." Neal could see Peter's jaw tighten as he suppressed his anger. "I'm heading over to see them now. Want to come along? You're an escape wizard. Maybe you can spot something."

The Metropolitan Correctional Center was only a few blocks away. Within minutes they were standing in Hagen's empty cell. The Dutchman had been held in a maximum security section of the center. Since he'd been cooperating, his lawyer had been able to negotiate additional protection and a reduced sentence. The terms were exceptionally sweet for someone who'd built up such a record.

 _Why would Hagen throw it all away?_ That was the question Neal asked himself as he studied the spartan furnishings. He didn't find anything in the cell to enlighten him. Hagen was an artist, but he'd left no sketches or doodles to give any hints to his mindset. Neal gloomily looked around the cell, scanning the space for clues.

"Eww."

"What?" Peter demanded. "If you poke around a toilet, don't expect it to smell like jasmine and lilacs."

"Yeah, but rotten eggs? And this isn't coming from the toilet but his bed." Neal knelt down along the baseboard. "Correction. Not the bed but the floor. What is this? Sulfur?"

Peter knelt down next to him, his nose wrinkling as he examined the powder. "Sure smells like it." He reached inside his case for a specimen bag and collected a small sample. The guard stood beside them, looking perplexed. "Was the cell treated by an exterminator?" Peter asked.

"Not to my knowledge," the guard replied, "but prisoners complain of roaches. It could be pest bait."

"That may account for it," Peter said, but he didn't look convinced and neither was Neal. He'd never heard of any roach powder that contained sulfur.

Their next stop was the prison control room and a review of the camera feeds. To speed up the chore, Peter and Neal worked alongside prison officials at separate monitors. Thirty minutes into the review, Peter cried out, "Here's the answer!" and he jabbed an accusing finger at the monitor.

Neal had Peter play it back for him. Unbelievable. The feed showed Hagen sauntering out with a woman. They strode straight past the guards, the checkout desk, and out of the building with no one even looking at them. It was as if they were invisible. Hagen was wearing his orange prison jumpsuit. The woman was slender, almost as tall as Hagen, and clad in a dark maroon and black Victorian steampunk dress with maroon military coat. Her dark hair was pulled back into a chignon, and she wore an elaborate silver Venetian mask which covered most of her face. She had her hand on Hagen's arm, loosely guiding him.

"Were the guards all drugged?" Neal stared at the prison officials in disbelief. They were obviously as perplexed as he and Peter. No one could come up with a rational explanation.

When Neal and Peter met in Peter's office after their return to White Collar, they still hadn't come up with anything that made sense.

"My best guess is an Invisible Man potion," Neal confessed. "Do you want me to ask Mozzie about it? He's an expert on drugs. Perhaps he's heard of something."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but go ahead," Peter replied. "But if Hagen had been rendered invisible, why did he show up on the camera feed? Perhaps all the prison guards were drugged. That sounds even more like a special request of Mozzie. If anyone knows how to drug a prison guard into oblivion, it would have to be him. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about his experiments last month."

Neal shrugged acknowledgment, but his thoughts were going in another direction. Someone had mentioned sulfur recently. . . . "Of course! Last month when we were in Buttonwood—"

"Stop!" Peter ordered hastily and rose to close the door to his office.

Neal made no attempt to hide his smile. Obviously Buttonwood was still a sore subject. Understandable. If Neal had acted like Peter had there, he would be sensitive too. It wasn't only Peter who'd been struck down by a curse which turned him into a dork. Mozzie and Dean Winchester had been affected as well, but knowing he wasn't singled out brought Peter little comfort.

When Neal showed Peter and El the photos that Mozzie's girlfriend Janet had taken of that unforgettable weekend in South Jersey, he'd never seen El laugh so hard. Neal's reassurance he'd never ever show the photos at work did little to calm Peter's completely unfounded suspicions.

Neal took a breath and sought to calm the waters. "You have no need to feel embarrassed. Most of the men in Buttonwood were acting the same way, although I'll admit the three of you were among the most entertaining. Lucky for you, Dean's brother Sam and I were smart enough not to let ourselves be infected by malevolent will-o'-wisps."

Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I wouldn't act so smug. Who had to be rescued from blood-sucking vampires?"

Neal shook his head. "That's beside the point. When Sam and I were on stakeout in the swamp—two courageous hunters determined to rescue the men of Buttonwood by dispatching the swamp spirit to the dark regions from whence it had come—"

"Your point, oh mighty demon-hunter?" Peter said, barely stifling his sigh.

"Sam helped pass the time by giving me a few pointers in demon lore. Supposedly powdered sulfur is a sign that a demon was present."

Peter sat in stony silence for a moment. "You want me to believe a demon was involved with Hagen's disappearance?"

"You'd rather stick to the Invisible Man theory?"

**Roadside Motel, Fishkill, New York. May 13, 2005. Friday morning.**

Dean Winchester emerged from the shower, grabbed a towel to dry himself off, and strolled into the bedroom. "Hey, Sam,—"

He stopped. Sam was still asleep, sprawled face down on the bed. Dean checked his watch. Still technically morning. He'd thought the noise of the shower would have awoken him. They'd gotten back from burning the bones over ten hours ago. That was the freakiest ghost Dean had seen in a long time. And the stinkiest. Just because the man was killed in a fishing accident was no excuse for his ghost to smell like a fish kill. _Fish kill in Fishkill_ , Dean repeated, chuckling inwardly. He should call Chloe up and suggest that for a story. He hadn't talked with her in a while. That was a come-on line she probably hadn't heard.

After that first promising encounter in Buttonwood, he and Chloe had gone nowhere fast. They'd talked a few times on the phone. She was struggling to find time to research witch lore for her novel. The technical writing assignment she had was giving her fits. Last time he called, she had to cut it short for a business call. Just as well. The demon hunting business had been going full throttle.

Dean watched his brother and winced. He'd hoped Sam's sleep issues were a thing of the past. After seeing his girlfriend Jessica go up in flames, nightmares and flashbacks had been a routine occurrence for quite a while. Granted, not an easy thing to get over, but Sam had done it. Then he had the vision vibe going on with the yellow-eyed demon, but that was also a thing of the past. So what was up with the dude now?

Fat chance of Sam telling him. No, he'd much rather pretend he was feeling fine and deny everything. Didn't he realize how transparent he was? Avoiding sleep till he was so wrecked he had no choice and then crash in the car or bed, muttering nonsense.

What chick was he dreaming about? 'Cause it had to be a chick, right? If he didn't snap out of it soon, Dean would have to ask their friend Bobby about it. In some respects, Bobby seemed more like a father to Sam than their own dad had been. Maybe Bobby could get Sammy to open up.

Dean studied him. It simply wasn't natural to wake up after sleeping for ten hours looking more exhausted than before. Or was it? Those moans didn't sound like moans of pain. Dean smiled. He'd have to fix Sam up and soon.

Sam's phone rang on the bedside table. Dean walked over to catch it, but it'd already woken Sleeping Beauty. Letting out a huge yawn, Sam rolled over and sat up, blinking his eyes. "Yeah?" he mumbled into the phone. "Sure, I remember . . . How's the art scene? . . . Oh, really?" As Sam listened, he grabbed a pencil and started scribbling notes. "Yeah, you did right. Tomorrow morning okay?"

Dean tried to piece together what was going on from his comments. Who did they know from the art world? Only one person that he could recall—Neal Caffrey. That case in Buttonwood. The swamp spirit. Being turned into a dork was not the most uplifting moment of his life, but it had led to him meeting Chloe, or Cecilia Hepburn as she was known to her urban fantasy fans. That dude Neal worked for—Peter Burke. Mr. Law and Order. He'd turned out okay in the end, too. Surprisingly open-minded when it came to vamps and a connoisseur of cars, he'd give him that. He'd met worse feds in his life.

Plus Neal's friend Mozzie had been more than grateful for their help, supplying them with several professional-grade IDs and credit cards. Given that usually the only thanks they got from saving someone's ass was a grudging promise not to prosecute, Dean had chalked up the experience as one of their better moments.

"What did Neal want?" he asked when Sam hung up.

"A prisoner disappeared from a detention facility."

"So? It's called a prison escape. Happens all the time. We've done our share."

"Not when the dude walks straight past the guards without them even noticing him. He was accompanied by a masked woman dressed in black."

"Catwoman? Have they been staying up late, watching _Batman_ reruns?"

"Neal swears not," Sam said with a grin. "This woman must have looked like someone out of _The Wild, Wild West_. She wore a long military coat and a fancy silver mask. Neal found sulfur in the cell."

"Sulfur, huh?"

"He's also promised free food, beer, as well as a place to stay. We don't have another case at the moment."

"No mention of rotting fish, I hope?"

"Not a word."

Dean shrugged. "Free food, no rotten fish? Let's do it."

**Metropolitan Correctional Center, New York City. May 14, 2005. Saturday morning.**

"They're late," Mozzie grumbled.

"I don't think Dean's ever driven in Manhattan," Neal said, checking his watch. "He may have taken the wrong turn off FDR Drive." They were standing on the east side of the correctional center next to the entrance to the fenced-off parking lot for prison officials. Peter was already inside. Neal suspected Peter knew what was going on but was staying clear of it so he could plead ignorance.

There had been only one snag when Neal contacted Sam. The problem wasn't with him or Dean. It was Baby. Neal heaved a much put-upon sigh. Until he'd met Dean and Sam, the only one in his life who needed special handling was his friend Mozzie. His conspiracy-wired brain was convinced the feds were under orders to toss him in lockdown at the first opportunity and throw away the key. The fact that Mozzie had amassed a fortune in finder's fees for helping Neal on cases did little to ease his fear of entrapment.

Now in addition to Mozzie there was Dean's prized '67 Impala, Baby, to pamper. Dean was on the point of rejecting driving to the center until Neal promised Mozzie would stand watch over his car. And, of course, Mozzie couldn't do anything as straightforward as babysit a vehicle. He insisted on making a con out of it. So now Mozzie was dressed in the garb of a prison employee, his creative soul assuaged.

"There they are," Mozzie called out triumphantly, and motioned for Dean to pull up alongside him. Opening the door for him, he said, "Welcome to Gotham. Never fear, Baby is under my protection for the duration." He added with an unholy look of delight, "This will be a new experience. I've never driven an Impala."

"Hold on a minute," Dean protested. "No newbie's touching my car. You can show me where to park."

Neal and Sam stood aside and let the parties argue it out. When Mozzie played his trump card of threatening to withhold future fake IDs, Dean finally relented.

Peter was waiting for them at the security barrier when they entered the building.

Dean flashed his badge to the guard. "Special Agent Ford, and this is —"

"They're with us," Peter interrupted, stepping up quickly.

"May I?" Neal asked and inspected Sam's badge. "Special Agent Hamill, is it?"

Sam smiled. "Mozzie thought you'd appreciate the reference."

"I didn't hear that," Peter said. Neal could tell from the twitch in the corners of his mouth he wouldn't give them any grief either.

Together they reviewed the camera feed. "We spoke with the guards who were filmed," Peter said. "They remember the other events that are shown on the feed, but draw a blank on Hagen. They swear he wasn't there and insist the video must have been doctored."

"We were on the scene within five hours of his disappearance," Neal added. "The guards were all tested for drug use and checked out clean. No hallucinogens or any other drugs."

Dean eyed Sam. "You thinking what I am?"

He nodded. "A spell most likely." He turned to Peter. "Zoom in on that woman. What's that she's wearing around her neck? Some sort of pendant or amulet?"

While they studied the image, Peter retrieved a couple of photos from his briefcase. "We made stills of the woman and the pendant. We've been trying to trace it. Do you recognize it?"

Sam shook his head. "It looks ancient but I haven't seen it before."

They proceeded to search both the cell and the route Hagen and the woman had taken. Peter insisted they wear gloves, something Dean chafed at, grumbling that as long as there was no blood, what was the point.

"What's the connection between sulfur and demons?" Neal asked Sam as they overturned Hagen's bed.

"You don't understand what demons are, do you?"

"Not really. I know they're evil, and that's about it."

"Demons were once human souls, but they've been tortured in Hell by Lucifer and other demons. Since they come from Hell, they secrete sulfur. The stories of Hell being fire and brimstone aren't myths. They're real. Brimstone is another word for sulfur. It's a byproduct of the volcanoes that continually erupt."

"The whole nine yards of torment, suffering, and pestilence," Dean added. "Hades is a deep fryer on a cosmic scale."

Sam ran his finger along the seams of the mattress. "And there's a direct relation between the amount of sulfur residue and the strength of the demon. From the amount of sulfur found in Hagen's cell, the demon who visited here was a powerful one."

"Are witches the same thing as demons?" Peter demanded.

"Not necessarily," Dean said. "Witches also start off as being human. They may have trained with a witch or have special powers, but they're still human. Some witches—the most powerful ones—become demons by making a deal with one to acquire power in exchange for their souls."

It was hard to take the guy seriously, as he matter-of-factly discussed how a person could become a demon or witch. But Neal never used to believe in vampires either. And the way Hagen had managed to become invisible to a prison full of guards was no laughing matter. 

It took an hour, but they finally found what they were looking for. Sam discovered it taped to the bottom of a trash can which was inside the front door to the prison. He held up the small leather bag for them to see. "This is a hex bag."

Peter strode over to place it in an evidence container. "You believe this is what caused the prison staff not to see them?"

"That's right, and see these scorch marks?" Dean pointed to blackened residue on the painted wall. "I'd lay odds this is where they teleported out of here."

"We'll take the bag back to the lab and have it analyzed," Peter said. He looked at them dubiously. "You want to come along?"

Dean grimaced. "That's a joke, right?" Neal smiled at Dean's reaction. It reminded him of Mozzie. At least Dean didn't seem intimidated by the thought, simply bored.

"You'll need to give us the details if you expect us to help," Sam cautioned.

Peter nodded. "We should be able to obtain preliminary results later today."

Dean pulled Neal aside. "Any ideas on how we could productively spend the next few hours while we're cooling our heels?"

"We're not far from the Bowery. There's a place on Forsyth Street—Sal's Billiards. You can always find a game going on." He stopped to check where Peter was, but he was off talking to a prison official and couldn't hear them. "Poker games are in the back. Mozzie can show you the way. He and Sal are old friends. The food's not bad either. Keep your receipt. Peter can expense it."

"Thanks." He turned to Sam. "You coming?"

Sam hesitated. "Actually I thought I'd hang out with Neal. I may be able to help on the analysis and I'd like to learn more about Hagen. How did he become acquainted with such a powerful witch?"

Peter returned as he was talking. "Good question. That's exactly what I want to know, too."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam accompanied Dean back to the Impala. When Mozzie heard about Sam's plans, he insisted on preparing him for the upcoming ordeal. In dark sepulchral tones as if he were alerting them about the coming Apocalypse, he warned Sam of the evils awaiting him at government overlord central, aka the Jacob Javits Federal Building.

The building was a short walk from the Correctional Center and gave Sam a chance to gain an impression of the area. It wasn't often that he had the chance to visit an urban center like New York. The glass skyscrapers soaring into the sky were an alien world compared to the dusty small-town streets he normally trod.

When they arrived at the White Collar offices, Peter said he'd work on the official response to Hagen's disappearance and requested they take the hex bag to the forensics lab. Sam would have bet Neal wouldn't have called it a hex bag when he filled out the requisition form, but Sam would have lost. The lab technician didn't even bat an eye. Not the reception Sam would have gotten from the usual sheriff he had to deal with. Still, he had to hide his grin when he observed the care with which the technician opened the bag. It was if she expected to find either a live grenade or a venomous coiled snake ready to strike.

Instead, the bag contained an old coin, a wilted flower, and a bone. Neal obtained photos of the items before they left and told Sam they could wait in his niche on the White Collar floor. The niche was a spot Neal had been allocated in the IT lab to conduct his art authentication work. On a Saturday, it was surprising to see how many people were at work. He and Dean weren't the only ones who went without weekends.

Neal rolled a chair over for Sam. "Welcome to my world." He'd posted sketches and cartoons on a whiteboard. When Sam asked about the cartoons, he said most were of the White Collar team. He named some of the people, including Peter's boss, Reese Hughes.

The cartoons were irreverent snapshots of his colleagues. It was a world of camaraderie which gave Sam a twinge of envy. What would it be like to work for a boss? He already knew what a disaster it would be for Dean. Sometimes Bobby acted a little like one, although he complained they treated him like their servant. From the cartoons Neal had on his wall, Bobby didn't bear much resemblance to Hughes, which brought up the question what must Hughes think of those cartoons?

"What exactly is a hex bag supposed to do?" Neal asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"You can think of it as a type of charm which is used to cast a spell. Usually it contains multiple types of objects like this one does."

"Can you tell what kind of spell it is by analyzing the items inside the bag?"

"It doesn't work that way. Often a powerful witch casts a separate spell on each ingredient. They combine inside the bag to make an even stronger spell. But we may get an idea of where the bag was made based on its ingredients. What can you tell me about Hagen?"

"He's a British art forger and counterfeiter. Until we caught him a few weeks ago, he'd been in the business for about fifteen years. Peter nicknamed him the Dutchman because he was so difficult to catch and we didn't know who he was. A few months ago we finally identified him through some forgeries he'd done. Lately Hagen's been working for an international criminal group called Ydrus. He'd struck a deal to cooperate in return for a reduced sentence and special protection. When he first disappeared, we suspected Ydrus had gotten to him, but I don't know of any witches who work for Ydrus."

Sam didn't chuckle and pointed out, "You were the ones who called him the Dutchman."

"That's right and after a job he'd disappear into the fog like the Flying Dutchman, but we had no reason to believe he was being aided by witchcraft."

Sam shrugged. "How would you have known? I wouldn't dismiss the possibility."

Neal stopped to consider. "I suppose you could be right. If it had happened once, there wasn't anything to say it hadn't happened before. But I can picture Peter's reaction if I told him the reason Hagen was so successful was witchcraft." Neal's eyes widened and he slapped the edge of the desk. "That's it! I'm an idiot. Why didn't I think of that earlier?"

"You want to clue me in?"

"When I started working on the case earlier this year, I examined a couple of forgeries we suspected the Dutchman of having made. One of them is called _Witches' Sabbath_. Are you familiar with it?"

Sam shook his head. "But with a name like that, you've got my interest. Tell me about it."

"It was painted by Francisco Goya in the late eighteenth century. He created a series of six paintings on witchcraft." Neal pulled up a photo of the painting on his computer. "In _Witches' Sabbath_ , the devil is represented as a goat. He's surrounded by a group of disfigured witches. Goya treated the same theme in one of the Black Paintings."

Sam studied the photo. "What are the Black Paintings?"

"They were murals he painted for his house. He'd never intended to exhibit them. After his death, they were transferred to canvas. By the time Goya painted them, he'd grown totally deaf. His works had become bleak and dark. Goya himself was plagued by an unknown illness and feared he was growing insane." Neal paused and considered for a moment. "I was going to ask Hagen why he was so interested in Goya but never had the chance. He also counterfeited a bond which contained an image of a Goya painting."

"Do you know if any of Hagen's other forgeries had a connection to the occult?"

Neal considered for a moment. "He also forged a painting of Salome by Titian. It depicts the head of John the Baptist on a platter. I suppose if you thought John the Baptist was a vampire . . ."

"Yeah, that does sound like a bit of a stretch. It could have been a symbolic depiction."

Neal eyed him curiously. "How far back does vampire lore go? Not that I'm saying John the Baptist was one, but could he have been?"

"According to Bobby, yes."

"He's your hunter friend, right?"

"Bobby's much more than that. He's a combination of surrogate dad, mentor, consultant, and backup. He's hauled our asses out of the fire more times than I can count. Bobby's the expert on vampires. After our encounter with the nest in New Jersey, we realized we needed to bone up on them. Up to a few months ago, vamps appeared to be almost extinct, but lately there's been a resurgence of reports, particularly in the Northeast."

"And you say vampires were around during the time of Christ?"

"Even before then. There are legends of vampire-like beings in ancient Greece, Mesopotamia, even in ancient Egypt. When did Titian live?"

"The sixteenth century. He spent most of his life in Venice. Had an exceptionally long lifespan for the time—around ninety years by most estimates. That may not be that long by vampire standards."

"These days it could be. Hunters have made a major dent in the population. Eventually we'll do the same with this latest outbreak. I've read reports that Venice was a hotbed of vampire activity in the sixteenth century. Corpses from that period have been found with their jaws forced open by a brick. It was a common misconception that you could kill a vamp that way."

Neal powered on the computer at the next workstation for Sam to use.

Sam looked at him questioningly. "The FBI won't be upset I'm using their computer?"

"You're safe. I logged you in as a guest. You have access to the internet but none of our internal files."

Sam read up on the other witch paintings by Goya and the Titian painting while Neal was checking some foreign language websites. Neal was right when he said Goya had gone dark side. It was tempting to think the artist may have had personal knowledge of demons.

"Do the Spanish have any vampire legends?" Neal asked.

Sam thought a moment. "There's something called a _guajona_ I've heard about." He pulled up the Wikipedia page. "She's a female vampire who also has some witch characteristics. I guess you'd call her a hybrid. Supposedly a guajona looks like those hags in Goya's Witches Sabbath painting. She usually doesn't kill her victims but leaves them in a weakened state."

Neal looked at him, startled. "You're saying a witch can also be a vampire? Isn't that cheating? I remember you said that some witches were demons, so you could wind up with a witch-vampire-demon? Please tell me I'm wrong."

"No such luck. For instance, a witch could be turned by a vampire then strike a bargain with a demon to acquire additional powers." Sam's words trailed off as he considered the implications. "I've never encountered a triple-barreled threat like that. She'd be one nasty character."

"I've been trying to discover if Goya painted any vampires. He made a series of etchings  . . ." He turned to his computer and searched around. "Here it is— _The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters_. How's that for a title? And there's another painting called _Exorcism_ with what could be vampires."

Sam pulled up his chair to view the etching. It showed bat-like creatures surrounding a sleeping man.

"Do vampires actually turn into bats?" Neal asked.

Sam chuckled. "As far as I know, they don't. At least we've never heard of any that do. I don't suppose you know anything in Hagen's background to link him to anything weird or mysterious?"

"No, but the man was only identified in the past few months, so it's hard to know what he might have been into. Satan worship is not out of the question. In his plea bargain, Hagen confined himself to revelations about Ydrus. He didn't mention any personal obsessions and we didn't think to ask."

Their research moved from paintings to the coin in the hex bag and the pendant the woman was wearing. By the time Peter returned, they had something to show for their efforts.

"The official search for Hagen hasn't produced any leads," Peter said. "Are you faring any better?"

Sam nodded. "Dean will want to hear this too."

"We haven't had lunch yet," Neal said. "Sal's burgers aren't bad, and Peter, you'll like the beer."

**Sal's Billiards. May 14, 2005. Saturday afternoon.**

Peter hadn't heard of Sal's Billiards but had sometimes wondered where Neal went to keep his pool skills sharp. Sal's was only a few blocks north of the Bureau. Neal could even get in a quick game during the lunch hour. He apparently was a good friend of the owner. Mozzie was, too. Peter had a sudden desire to learn more about the place. Perhaps he should take up pool.

A middle-aged swarthy man with dark shrewd eyes called out a greeting to Neal when they entered. "That's Sal," Neal explained, giving him a wave. "Second generation Italian."

Dean had just finished a game. Judging by the satisfied look on his face, he also was pleased with the action at Sal's. "I'd buy lunch, but I recall someone mentioned free grub for our consulting services."

"The Bureau can spring for this," Peter confirmed. They commandeered a table in the cafe and called the waiter over.

"Sal's burgers are good," Neal said, "but his meatball subs are even better. Homemade Italian sausage on ciabatta with ricotta and mozzarella on—"

"Stop. You're killing me," Sam moaned. "We had stale donuts for breakfast."

Service was satisfyingly prompt and soon the table was covered with heaping plates of subs and frosted mugs of beer.

Dean smacked the ketchup bottle over his fries. "What was in the hex bag?"

"The coin is Celtic," Sam said. "I found another example online. Dates back to the first century."

"Is it typical to have such an ancient artifact in a hex bag?" Peter asked.

"Not really," Sam said. "Usually hex bags are a combination of a talisman, herbs, and bones. If a witch is targeting someone in particular, there might be something belonging to the person or a lock of hair, for instance. An ancient coin isn't that easy to come by. We've only seen one other similar case."

"What's the coin look like?" Dean asked.

Neal passed around the photo. "It's gold. There's the image of a flower on one side and abstract pattern on the other. I looked up Celtic symbolism online." He turned to Peter. "You'll like this. The Celts were big into astronomy. You can see stars and the moon on the coin."

Curious, Peter studied the photo more closely. "Those pinwheels might be a meteor or comet." He looked over at Dean. "What do you know about Celtic witches? Is there such a thing as Celtic witchcraft?"

"I've heard rumors about it, but nothing specific," Dean said. "Chloe may know more about it."

Peter groaned at the mention of her name. Chloe had unintentionally instigated the dork curse. He shuddered to think what she was capable of now. "Isn't there someone else?"

Dean frowned. "Are you still blaming her for Buttonwood? That was an innocent mistake. She had no idea the spell she cast would actually work. She didn't even know that she was casting a spell."

"You just proved my point." Peter's cell phone vibrated, cutting off Dean's rebuttal. It was the lab reporting the test results on the flower found in the hex bag. When he ended the call, he asked, "You ever hear of a small whorled pogonia?"

Dean sopped up marinara sauce that had dribbled out of his sub with his bread. "Are we talking plant, animal, or mineral?"

Sam was already researching it on his laptop. "It's an orchid."

"You mean like the purple flowers in corsages?" Dean asked.

"Not exactly. This is a native orchid." Sam quickly scanned the webpage. "Very rare. There's a picture of it. Not very showy. It doesn't look much like an orchid to me."

"The lab says the flower had only been picked two or three days ago," Peter noted. "That may help narrow down where the hex bag was made."

"What about the bones?" Neal asked. "Did the lab figure out where they came from?"

Peter nodded. "The bag contained two femurs and part of the skull of a wood frog."

"So we have a Celtic gold coin, a rare orchid, and bones from a wood frog." Sam shook his head uneasily. "Not the typical hex bag we normally find. This is no ordinary witch."

"We already know that," Dean added. "Teleportation? The invisibility spell she cast? We could be dealing with a major demon. I'll ring up Chloe. See if she knows anything about this flower." He took out a pad of paper from his jacket pocket, wrote down the name of the orchid, and walked over to an empty table in the corner of the cafe.

"Why couldn't he have stayed here to call?" Peter asked.

"He probably didn't want us to hear him go kissy-kissy," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

Neal grinned. "Is he still seeing her?"

"That's not the right way to phrase it. Our paths crossed only one time since March, but he talks with her a lot on the phone. He claims it's in the name of research, but Dean's never been the one for research till he met Chloe."

"When did she become an expert on witches?" Peter asked.

"She's researching real witches for her new novel."

"She's in Salem now, soaking up the local atmosphere and witch vibes," Neal added. "So far there haven't been any reports of men turning into dorks or other weird spells. Maybe she's gotten her act together."

"You sound like you've been corresponding with her too," Peter noted.

"Not me," Neal corrected, "but Janet. Mozzie keeps me informed. Janet visited Chloe in Salem a couple of weeks ago. She said they visited some local bogs. Janet's collecting ideas for a new costume exhibit featuring damselflies."

"Does this mean Mozzie will soon be into witchcraft as well?" Peter asked, sensing another looming Mozzie disaster on the horizon. "Mozzie the Warlock? Let's switch the subject before I become even more depressed."

"How do you feel about devil worship?" Sam asked, "I researched the amulet around the witch's neck." He pulled out the photo so Peter could see it. "There's an image of a goat on one side. We found a similar item online. It's a Sumerian coin that's been fashioned into an amulet. The male goat or he-goat as some call it, has been appropriated as a symbol of a horned god—Satan or Lucifer."

"Do witches worship the devil?" Neal asked.

"Some do," Sam said. "It varies among covens."

Dean returned to the table. "I got through to Chloe. She's wrapped up her job in Salem. She'd heard of the flower. Confirms it's very rare. She checked her sources and the only place she found that's anywhere close is a wooded area near Simsbury, Connecticut. That's supposedly near Windsor. Chloe's joined a Wiccan coven. They call themselves the Alyssum Sisterhood. They're centered at Yale University in New Haven. She'll check with them to see if they have any contacts in Simsbury and will call me back."

Neal looked over at Peter. "You feel like another road trip?"

"I'd promised my wife I'd work on the bathroom remodeling. Windsor is about two hours away." Peter was torn. Heading off to Connecticut based on a flower? But he didn't have any other leads. He could hardly call in local officials to investigate a possible witch.

"Suit yourself," Dean said. "We have no such restrictions. If Chloe turns up something, I'm heading out."

"You know we don't have any other leads for Hagen," Neal added. When Peter didn't reply, he pursued his advantage. "This is work related. You can take comp time next week and work on the bathroom. El will understand. Didn't you tell me she was busy working on their community theater performance of _Barefoot in the Park_? That's where she is today, isn't she? She probably won't even notice you're gone. In any case, I have no house chores and after all the effort we put it to capture Hagen, I've no intention of missing out on our best shot of finding him." Neal turned to Dean. "Can I hitch a ride?"

"We're not a bus. You'd have to sit in the back, pay for gas, meals—"

"All right, you convinced me," Peter declared, "But if we go to Simsbury, it will be strictly by the book. We'll inform the local authorities and obey all the laws."

Dean raised a brow. "You want to tell the police we're hunting a witch?"

"Of course not," Neal said. "We'll explain we're chasing the Flying Dutchman."

Peter sighed. _Here we go again._

 

* * *

 **_Notes_ ** _: Thanks for reading! The road trip to the wilds of Connecticut begins next Monday when I post Chapter 2: The Woman of His Dreams._

 _Sam is correct when he reports that the small whorled pogonia is rare. In fact, it the rarest native orchid east of the Mississippi. I've pinned a photo of it, the coin, and the amulet as well as other visuals to the Witches' Sabbath board of our Pinterest site at_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon) _where both Penna Nomen and I pin illustrations for our stories. I'll update the board with additional pins when I post a new chapter._

_This fic is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen. Many thanks to the awesome Penna for volunteering her beta-editor help for Witches' Sabbath._

_A few notes about references in this chapter: Peter fooled Neal in The Queen's Jewels._ _Maia was right to be offended by being depicted as a guajona. Guajonas are legendary creatures from Cantabria, Spain. They are described as blood-sucking disfigured hags. They attack adults and children at night but generally don't kill their victims._

 _As for the vampires of Venice, I wrote about them and Titian for our blog._ _Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation at _[_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com), _where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. Spooks and witches have been on both of our minds recently. In her most recent post, Penna wrote about Harry Potter in Caffrey Conversation._

 _If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. _In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant.__ _My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur._

 _Disclaimers: The worlds of_ _White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas._ _Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._


	2. The Woman of His Dreams

**On the Road. Saturday, May 14, 2005**

"Is El upset?" Neal asked as he tossed his suitcase onto the backseat of the Taurus.

"That we're taking off to Connecticut and leaving her behind?" Any wife whose husband had weaseled out of working on their torn-up bathroom had a perfect right to be, but Peter knew he married an extraordinary woman. "More envious than anything else. If she didn't have a rehearsal tonight, she would have joined us, and she reassured me that the bathroom would be waiting for me upon my return. I know I can count on your help."

"Absolutely," Neal agreed readily. "What kind of mural would you like? Mermaids, perhaps? Or do you prefer to swim with the fishes?"

"Me pick a mural subject? I'm staying out of that fish fryer. You need to talk with El."

Chloe had called back as they were finishing their meal at Sal's. Her contact in the Alyssum Sisterhood had heard rumors about a witch operating in Windsor. That was all the confirmation Dean and Sam needed to go witch hunting. And not just them—Chloe, as well. Her agency had mentioned a job opening in New Haven, and she decided to take him up on it. Apparently Windsor was the scene of witch trials in the early 1600s, and she was eager to research them. Peter suspected she was even more excited about seeing Dean, but he'd limit his teasing. Peter's knowledge of Wicca and witchcraft was zero. As long as she didn't cast any spells on him, he wouldn't object to her assistance.

The BOLO on Hagen had not produced any results. NYPD and FBI agents were conducting the standard search procedures, but were dead in the water on where to look. Under the circumstances, Windsor seemed as likely as anywhere else.

"Nothing like a road trip to celebrate the end of the semester," Neal said, reaching into his backpack. "Plenty of time for good music. As I recall, you mentioned on our last road trip I could choose the music this time." He pulled out a CD.

"I said no such thing," Peter retorted, slapping on a stern expression. It wouldn't be a road trip with Neal without arguments over music.

"Sure you did." He inserted the CD before Peter could protest. "You'll like this. 'Speed of Sound' by Coldplay. The perfect song for a speed demon like you. This will keep me relaxed so I won't complain as much about your driving."

"When you put it that way, be my guest." He merged into the traffic on Riverside Drive. Windsor was only two hours away. They could be there by eight o'clock, in time for a late dinner.

"Why, thank you, Peter. I appreciate that."

"You realize that I would have been quite content to stay at the motel by the airport. Dean and Sam were in agreement with me."

"And miss out on a historic inn? I knew there was a reason I liked Chloe so much. You and El should look into that B&B association she belongs to. Discounts at member inns. You could plan romantic getaways. I'll be happy to take care of Satchmo for you. The Simsbury 1820 House is a mere eight miles from Windsor—much closer than the motel you were keen on. With Chloe's discount, it's about the same price. Did I tell you it has a gourmet restaurant on the premises? There's even a small art gallery featuring local artists."

As Neal rambled on about the delights of the inn, Peter smiled at his enthusiasm. Less than two weeks ago, Neal had been poisoned by a criminal out for revenge. Delirious and hallucinating, he spent two days holed up in Columbia's underground tunnel system. Neal's capacity to bounce back was astonishing.

What were the odds they could succeed in tracking down a witch in Connecticut who would lead them to Hagen? If Peter were truthful, he'd have to place them in the cellar. If he'd felt their chances were better, he would have been more concerned. At least, no one had mentioned vampires. That was reassuring, but how dangerous were witches? Would he wind up wishing he had vampires to deal with instead? And what curse had he been born under that he was now debating in all seriousness the relative threat of witches to vampires?

"Why are you groaning?"

Peter let out another one for good measure. "We're following our best lead to capture an escaped fugitive and I can't call in any FBI resources to help. I can hear their snipes now. _Hey, fellas, Burke's gone over the deep end. He thinks a witch whisked the Dutchman away on her magic broomstick_."

"Then you agree that we're dealing with a witch?"

Peter mulled that loaded question for a minute. "I haven't believed in witches since I was seven."

"I remember!" Neal said with a broad grin. "That was when your brother Joe tried to trick you into believing that a witch would visit your house on Halloween."

"That's right, and after he confessed, I said I was done with witches. But now here we are."

"That's right, Butch. Ready for another adventure?"

"I don't recall Butch Cassidy ever having to face witches or vampires, but sure. Bring it on, Sundance."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam looked over at Dean as he accelerated through the turn. "Is this the new you? I thought you'd spend the drive up to Connecticut griping about working with feds."

"Yeah, I suppose, but he didn't rain down on us too hard." Dean slipped in a cassette of "Bad Moon Rising." "And I'll admit, the case has some merit. We can take down a witch and get our expenses paid by the feds. No worries about being tossed in jail as a reward for our efforts. So what if we have to go along with a few requests?"

"This new mellow attitude wouldn't have anything to do with Chloe?"

"Of course, not. You're the one always whining to stay focused on the job. How much further is it? I already saw the signs for Avon."

"She said Simsbury was up the road a few miles from Avon." Sam began singing obnoxiously. "Dean has a crush, Dean has a crush."

"Careful, dude. You wanna walk the rest of the way in?"

"How many times have I had to listen to you sing?" He sat up straighter to scan out the windshield. "The tavern where she told us to meet isn't far from the inn."

"What was the name again?"

"Pettibone's." Sam checked his notes. "It's on Hartford Road."

"I see it ahead on the right, and there's Chloe's Mustang. I'm glad you reminded me how much you like hearing me sing." Dean launched into a full-throttle version of "Mustang Sally" as he pulled into the parking lot.

Sam rolled his eyes, a grin breaking out on his face. "You're going to be insufferable for the next few days, aren't you?"

Dean didn't dignify that question with an answer. Maybe Chloe knew someone they could fix Sam up with. Someone nerdy, who kept herself buried in books like he did.

When they walked into the tavern, Chloe was already sitting at a table. She stood up to wave them over. She was wearing the leather miniskirt Dean liked so much. Her auburn hair cascaded down the back of her tight leather jacket.

"Hi, Sam, Ravensword. It's been a while," she said giving Dean the once over, and from the look on her face, approving the goods.

He and Sam swung into chairs at the table. The restaurant was more upscale than the dives they usually stopped at. It even had white tablecloths. The polished hardwood floors looked spotless. Chloe must have already spoken to the waitress since she brought over two bottles of lager without being prompted. Dean tipped his bottle to Chloe. "I'm glad to hear you freely acknowledge I'm the role model for your hero. It's about time."

But Chloe wasn't prepared for a complete capitulation to the Winchester charm factory. "Just remember Zoe Alderman is the heroine of my stories. Ravensword is only a secondary character."

He clinked glasses with her. "As her major love interest, he's much more than that. And based on the fan comments I've read on your website, he's wildly more popular than Zoe."

She grinned. "You go to my website? Why don't you ever leave a comment on my blog?"

"Because he's too tongue-tied," Sam said.

Dean kicked him under the table. Sometimes Sam could act like such a juvie. He needed his own girlfriend, so Dean could josh him back. The waiter came by and took their order. Although the place looked upscale, the prices were reasonable enough that they could splurge on steak. Between Dean's winnings from the day of pool hustling and the reimbursement from the feds, they were flush for the weekend.

Once the waiter left, Chloe confided, "The Alyssum Sisterhood isn't the only coven I've joined. I have sisters now as far away as the U.K. and Australia. Because of my ancestry, they've greeted me with open arms."

That was surprising. She'd never mentioned that to him before. But genealogy hadn't exactly been a hot-button topic for them. "You're descended from a witch?"

"Does that bother you?" Her eyes lit up as she twitched her nose at him. "Are you worried I bewitched you?"

Dean hadn't planned to bring it up but how could he resist when presented with a layup like that? "You can't blame me for asking. After all, you turned most of the male population of Buttonwood into dorks."

"You're not still tormenting me about that?" she said, wincing. "You know that was an innocent mistake."

"That was before we knew about your dubious family connections," Sam pointed out. "You better tell us the full story."

She waited till the waiter served them their salads before starting. "My family is the reason I decided to write a novel on witchcraft. I'd never known much about my ancestors, but I met a man at a B&B in Vermont who was tracing his family tree and he inspired me to do the same. I already knew my father's family came from Massachusetts, but I discovered the surname Bishop has quite a history."

Dean took a swig of beer to prepare himself. "Let me guess. You're descended from a Salem witch."

She shrugged. "I wish it were hunters instead, but there's nothing I can do about it. I can trace my ancestry to Bridget Bishop, the first person to be executed for witchcraft in Salem. That was in 1692." As she talked about her infamous ancestor, she didn't seem in the least bothered. Instead, she was wearing it as a badge of honor. Dean braced himself for the grief he'd get from Sam. His main squeeze was descended from a friggin' witch.

"I have a photo of a drawing made of Bridget. We actually look a little alike." She dug into her bag for her phone and scrolled to find the photo. "Until I met you in April and had that unfortunate mishap with the swamp spirit, I never believed in witches and witchcraft."

"And now?" Dean challenged, looking at the photo. She was right. There was a resemblance.

"I admit your tale of hex bags, cloaking spell, and teleportation gives me pause. One of the covens I belong to has been supplying me with spells."

"Don't tell me you're dabbling again," Sam said with a groan. "I need at least a year in between Dean the Dork episodes."

"You don't have to worry. I've tried a few gentle spells. Nothing's ever worked—yet—but I'll keep trying. I must have a little of Bridget's blood in me. I wonder if she's the reason I'm interested in herbs. I was researching Bridget in Salem when you called me. I discovered she owned at least one tavern and was known for her revealing attire." She gave a sly smile. "You might say witchcraft is in my blood. It's my family business."

Sam's face was getting more worry wrinkles than a Pug. "Witches are no laughing matter. Despite what Wiccans may tell you, most witches we've come across cause trouble. Some of them aren't very dangerous—they're more like witch wannabes or students. But the others? You don't want to know about them."

Dean jumped in. "You're playing with fire," he said bluntly. "Some witches have made pacts with demons. There are others who are born bad-ass. Where we go, we don't see much white magic, but a helluva lot of demonic cruelty and torture that will make you wish you'd taken up knitting rather than writing."

"Is that what you think you have now?" she asked. "An uber-witch?"

Dean shrugged. "Could be. We haven't encountered any other who's been able to do what she can."

"Then you may be interested to know that Simsbury also has a connection to witches. A woman in the late seventeenth century was accused of being a witch."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Another one of your relatives?"

She chuckled. "I don't think so but you never know. Her name was Debby Griffen. She was known as the Witch of Simsbury."

"I remember you mentioning something about a Windsor witch trial," Sam said.

"That's right. The very first woman known to be executed in the colonies was Alse Young in 1652."

"Have you found any pictures of Alse or Debby?" Sam asked.

"No, unfortunately." She sat back and crossed her arms. "You asked for my help. Isn't it time you clued me in? And I want the full report, not the CliffsNotes version."

**Simsbury 1820 House. May 15, 2005. Sunday morning.**

Neal beat everyone else to breakfast, even Peter. When he jogged down the stairs, the inn was serenely quiet. He picked up a cup of coffee at the hospitality bar in the parlor and strolled over to the art gallery. How many inns have an art gallery? Chloe knew how to pick a place to stay.

On a normal Sunday morning, Neal would have been having his coffee on the terrace of June's mansion while he read the arts section of _The New York Times_. Now, instead of gazing out at the Manhattan skyline, he could evaluate the works of local artists. Neal shifted into his art critic persona and began to peruse the selection.

"I thought I'd find you here," Peter said when he entered the gallery several minutes later. "It didn't escape my attention that you sneaked a peek last night. What do you think? Any artists as good as Neal Caffrey?"

"I wouldn't want to hold them to that high a standard, but some show real talent. There's one in particular I like—Scott Pembroke. His landscapes are quite original." He showed Peter the paintings but Neal could tell he'd have a much more appreciative audience after breakfast.

They loaded up on muffins and fruit at the breakfast buffet and claimed possession of a table. Peter had been unusually accommodating at dinner last night, even tasting Neal's salmon tartar without making a face. Neal lost him on the sweetbreads Normande, but Peter didn't complain once at the menu prices and even allowed him to select the wine. He'd called it a celebration for Neal having survived his first year at Columbia, and Neal was happy to go along.

Dean and Sam had yet to appear by the time they finished breakfast and Peter was in no mood to delay any further. He pulled his map of the local area out of his pocket and spread it on the table. Neal knew that look. Peter was a man on a mission. The Dutchman was someone he'd chased most of his career at the FBI. If it meant partnering up with two demon-hunting brothers to track him down, so be it. But Dean and Sam would have to fall in line. If they didn't arrive soon, Peter would go upstairs and drag them down.

Luckily such drastic tactics weren't required, but even so by the time Dean and Sam straggled downstairs, Neal could have drawn the map by memory. They stopped off at the buffet and piled their plates high with sweet rolls before sitting down.

"Where's Chloe?" Neal asked.

"Still asleep," Dean said, after swallowing down a huge bite of cruller. "When I left, she said she wanted to stay up to write. I doubt she'll come down before noon."

"It's just as well," Sam added. "She wouldn't be much help in tracking down a witch."

"And just how will we manage that?" Neal asked.

Sam shrugged. "Chat up the townspeople." He slathered butter on a hot cranberry muffin. "Try to find out if any unexplained occurrences or deaths have happened."

"In other words, find out if she's ganked anyone," Dean added between bites.

"Not the word I'd use but your methods aren't that different from ours," Peter said. "Based on Chloe's information, the rumors about a witch come from the area around Windsor and Simsbury, so we'll focus our efforts there." He slipped on his brook-no-arguments face. "Here's the plan. You'll leave your fake IDs in your room. Dean, you're with me. We'll drive to Windsor, start off with the local police, and proceed from there." He turned to Neal. "You and Sam will do the same for Simsbury. We'll meet back here at noon to reassess."

Dean grunted as he pointed a half-eaten bear claw at him. "Who died and made you general?"

Peter pulled out his wallet and slapped his badge on the table. "This gives me all the authority I need."

Sam snorted. "You don't fool me. You just want to have the chance to ride in the Impala again."

Peter relaxed into a smile. "The thought did cross my mind." He turned to Dean. "And you'll be happy to know that I brought along my own music."

Dean's objections were put on hold when Peter pulled three tape cassettes out of his pocket. "What you see here are copies of Led Zeppelin concerts my brother made in the '70s—they're the raw, unedited versions."

Dean relaxed into a smile. "Welcome on board. You can ride shotgun."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam scanned the parking lot when he and Neal returned from their morning of snooping in Simsbury. The Impala was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't a surprise that Dean and Peter hadn't returned. Windsor was a much larger town. The Simsbury police lieutenant had been unusually cooperative. Sam appreciated the charm offensive Neal put on. Normally Sam was the one who had to placate the local authorities who were more often than not irritated by the intrusions of fake FBI agents. Today all he had to do was nod sympathetically.

Neal had demonstrated his con artist ability in New Jersey last month. He could talk someone out of his life savings within five minutes if he were so inclined, and the mark would walk away feeling that he'd made the best deal in the world.

When they entered the inn, they found Chloe had wandered downstairs. She looked half asleep and was sitting on a sofa in the parlor while glugging down coffee. Neal helped himself to a mug and sprawled in an armchair to listen to Sam's quick and dirty lecture on the essentials of witches and witchcraft.

When Dean and Peter arrived, witches continued to be the topic over lunch. Since the feds were picking up the tab, Sam splurged on crab cakes. He ordered a side of baby greens with Kalamata olives, walnuts, and sun-dried tomatoes. As far as he was concerned, he was ready to sign a long-term exclusive contract with the FBI.

 "We found three suspicious deaths in Windsor," Peter said between bites of his short rib sandwich. Sam planned to order it the next day. "A middle-aged woman drowned in Farmington River, and a young man committed suicide last month in his garage. After lunch we'll check out the other case. So far there's been nothing to connect them to witchcraft."

"Not unusual," Dean commented. "Witches don't leave a calling card, saying _Hey, dudes, I killed this guy through witchcraft_ and wave their hex bag in front of your face." He turned to Sam. "You have any luck?"

"One person. A local artist."

"Remember Scott Pembroke?" Neal asked Peter. "The artist I pointed out to you this morning? He died three weeks ago of an unknown disease."

"We have an appointment to talk with his widow, Melissa Pembroke, this afternoon," Sam added. "We hope she'll shed light on how it happened."

Peter pulled out his map of the region. "Chloe, you mentioned you knew of a site where the small whorled pogonia is known to grow."

She indicated a place labeled the Darling Wildlife Sanctuary in the woods east of Simsbury. "It's illegal to collect the flower, but I don't suppose witches hold themselves accountable to the law. You mentioned the flower had been picked only a few days ago. That makes sense since this is about the earliest it would bloom. We had an early spring which may account for it. Plant populations are generally tiny—less than twenty plants. Finding a colony is a challenge because the species has a long dormancy period. I plan to visit the site this afternoon."

"Okay, Burke," Dean said, standing up. "Grab your cassettes. We'll head back to Windsor. We meet back here at four."

Sam was amused at Peter's expression. Would Dean's power grab work? Apparently so, since Peter didn't come back with any sarcasm. They seemed to be settling into a friendly adversary mode, where neither one wanted to admit they enjoyed each other's company.

Sam worried that Neal wasn't taking the threat of a powerful witch seriously enough. Chloe was the same way. She spent her time around Wiccans who imagined they were conjuring up white magic. To her, witches were the stuff of a Disney movie. Maybe it was because she wrote fantasies. Even their encounters with the swamp spirit and the vamps hadn't dampened her lightheartedness. Neal and Chloe were both a couple of innocents. Dean sometimes chided Sam to lighten up, but he'd seen the dark side. Hell, he had demon blood inside him. Witches were nothing to make light of.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"This should be the place," Sam said, looking at his notes. "Twenty-four Barberry Lane. Scott died only two weeks ago. Melissa must still be grieving."

Neal parked Peter's Taurus on the graveled drive in front of a yellow cottage with neatly trimmed flower beds in front. A small square of grass set it off from the woods surrounding it. "I looked Melissa up in the FBI database. She's thirty-two, an English teacher at the local high school. She and Scott were married for two years. How do you plan to find out if a witch could be involved in Scott's death?"

Sam shrugged. "Watch and learn."

The woman who opened the door wore a handwoven loose gray tunic sweater over her jeans. Her long blond hair was loosely tied back in a ponytail. Neal noted the dark circles under her eyes.

Neal introduced himself and Sam and showed her his badge. "We appreciate you letting us talk to you."

"Come in, please," she said, welcoming them inside. "I've been frustrated by the lack of answers." She led them into her living room and gestured for them to take a seat. The living room was simply furnished in modular furniture. There were a couple of paintings on the walls. Judging by their style, Neal assumed Scott had painted them.

Neal let Sam handle the questions. She explained that her husband had died from what the doctors called a "wasting sickness" for lack of a better term. "He grew steadily weaker. All the specialists we consulted, all the tests they conducted—nothing helped. His heart finally gave out two weeks ago." Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

"When did you first notice the symptoms?" Sam asked, passing her a tissue.

"He first saw a doctor four months ago, but I'd have to say that, looking back, the symptoms began to appear about a year ago. At first we thought nothing of it. We just thought he was tired. But sometimes he'd wake up more exhausted than when he went to bed. Scott kept himself in good shape. He worked odd jobs as a carpenter to supplement our income. We used to enjoy taking walks in the woods. That's when we first suspected something wasn't right. He'd come back winded from one of our normal walks when he never used to be. It was as if his muscles were giving out on him. He had to give up carpentry. He could still paint, but for the last month was unable to do anything requiring physical strength."

"Did he have any unusual accidents or mishaps before the symptoms started appearing?" Sam asked.

She looked puzzled. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "Anything that seemed out of the ordinary?"

She thought several moments. "Once when I was away at a teacher's convention—this was about a year ago—I came home and found he'd cut his arm. He told he he'd gone out when it was dark to fetch firewood from the shed. He must have tripped over something in the yard and blacked out. He awoke about an hour later to find himself on the grass with a gash to his arm. He wasn't normally clumsy and that seemed a little odd to both of us. But the wound wasn't bad and it quickly healed." She looked at Sam questioningly. "That seems very minor, but that's about all I can remember."

He nodded encouragingly. "Anything you can recall like that is very helpful. Was he sleeping well? Did he complain of any bad dreams . . . or visions?"

Neal slanted a glance over to him at those words. Sam appeared unusually earnest. 

"I don't know that you'd call them nightmares, but . . ." she hesitated for a moment.

"Anything you say will be treated confidentially," Neal added, hoping to reassure her.

She brushed her hair back with one hand. "Scott told me he was having weird dreams about a woman. They started about nine months ago. I remember because it was right around the time the new school year started, and I teased him that it was because I wasn't paying enough attention to him. We made a joke of it. He didn't mention it again, but then I found a sketch he'd made of a woman—this was in February or so—and he admitted he was continuing to dream about her."

"Was it always the same dream?" Sam asked.

She nodded. "He couldn't recall what happened in the dream. All he remembered was the face of a woman." She gave them a quick glance. "They weren't sex dreams. At least he showed no sign they were. In fact, over the past several months he lost interest in sex. About the only thing he was still interested in was his art."

"Did the sketch look like anyone you know?"

She shook her head. "I thought she was perhaps someone he'd read about. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Dickens movie. Her hair was swept up and she wore a Victorian tight-collared dress." She gave a faint smile. "She'd didn't look particularly sexy to me."

"Could we see the sketch?" Neal asked.

"It's in his studio in the back. I'll take you there."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

She hesitated a moment before answering. "About two months ago when he was acting very distant, I began to wonder if he were seeing someone else. My classes were keeping me away not only during the day but evenings too since I help out with the drama program."

"Did he give you any cause to think there might be another woman?" Sam asked.

She worried her lower lip. "Once when I came home from teaching, I was surprised to not find him in his studio. I thought he might have walked into the woods for inspiration—we have a trail that goes into the woods from the studio—and I walked down the trail. I saw him standing with a woman. She had long, dark hair. They were standing very close." She reddened. "I took a photo. When I walked up to them, she said she was looking for early mushrooms and he'd given her directions."

"Do you still have the photo?" Neal asked.

She nodded and walked over to her desk in the corner of the room. Sitting down at the computer, she scanned through her files to pull up a couple of photos. "This first one is Scott." The photo showed a man of around thirty-five. His hair was as long as Sam's and his scruff thick enough to be classified as a beard. The photo must have been taken a while back as he appeared to be quite healthy. "This is Scott with the woman," she added. The two were both in profile. His face looked much more haggard. He appeared to be talking earnestly to her. The woman's had long coal-black hair. She could be the same person who was at the prison.

"May I take a look at Scott's paintings?" Neal asked. "I saw some of his works at the inn where we're staying. He was very talented."

A sad smile crossed her face. "I've been receiving many offers for them. I guess what they say is true. Once an artist is dead, he becomes wealthy. Scott never made much money from his paintings. That's why he worked as a carpenter." She offered to show them his studio.

Sam's phone rang as they rose to leave. From his words it sounded like Dean was on the other end. Afterward he said, "Something's come up. I'll have to leave shortly. Dean will swing by here to pick me up."

"Anything wrong?"

Sam took a quick look to check that Melissa couldn't overhear. "Vampires. Bobby called us. He got word of a nest operating out of Hartford. That's about an hour away. Our best chance to take them will be while there's still light. Dean will drop Peter off and we'll meet you back at the inn tonight."

Another nest? Sam had warned him vampires were on the increase. How long would it be before a nest was discovered in New York City? Was there one already?

Melissa was waiting for them at the studio entrance. A rustic A-frame covered in cedar shingles with large plate glass windows, it was set at the edge of the woods. It made a perfect artist's retreat, particularly for the nature landscapes Scott excelled at.

"It was his pride and joy," Melissa said softly. "He finished it only last year. Our future looked so bright back then." The tragedy of what had happened to Scott hit home. If a witch were responsible, Neal had a better understanding of why Dean and Sam sacrificed so much to be hunters. Someone who could wield that kind of power had to be stopped.

Scott had equipped the studio with track lights to supplement the natural light coming from the windows. He had three easels set up with works in various stages of completion. He'd been a prolific painter. More paintings lined the walls. A ladder led up to storage space at the top of the A-frame.

Melissa first got out the sketch she'd found. Scott had prepared it in charcoal. It was as she described. The woman had on an elaborate ball gown. Her hair was coiffed high on her head with ringlets dangling down. She had a mesmerizing stare, almost hypnotic. It made Neal long to see his other portraits. Was this typical? If so, he had a remarkable gift.

Melissa offered to return to the house and make copies of the photos. She appeared relieved when they said she didn't need to stay. Neal suspected she found it too painful to watch them examining her husband's paintings.

Sam continued to study the sketch. His expression, even for Sam, looked unusually troubled. "Do you recognize her?" Neal asked.

Sam hesitated before replying. "No, but for a moment, I thought . . ." He cleared his throat. "The past month or so I've seen a woman. Same hypnotic eyes, but the one I see is different. A spider web of black lace covers her face. I can't get her out of my mind," he admitted reluctantly after a moment. "Her eyes blaze through the spider web. Long blond hair, ivory neck. I know she's beautiful even though I can't make out her features. . . " His words trailed off and he gave an embarrassed chuckle. "That sounds crazy, even for me. Forget it."

"Are you feeling okay?" Neal asked, only partly in jest.

"Am I getting weak?" He dismissed the suggestion with a laugh. "No, it's probably just a freaky coincidence. But that's why I acted a little spooked." He paused. "I haven't mentioned anything of this to Dean. Please don't discuss it with him. I'm sure it's nothing. I must be horny."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, there's no one in my life."

"Maybe that's a signal you should get out more? My girlfriend left for France a few months ago and already I'm dreaming about a blonde." Neal laughed. "What is it about blondes? Mine's sitting next to Mozart at a harpsichord."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You have some elitist dreams going on."

"Tell me about it," he said, wincing. "I figure it's my own fault. I heard listening to Mozart improves cognition skills so I've been giving it a whirl while writing my papers. Now that the term's ended and my papers are done, my Mozart babe will probably disappear as well." Sam smiled but plainly he was still bothered by his dream. "You and Dean deal in weirdness all the time. You sure you don't want to tell him?"

He scratched the back of his neck, looking even more embarrassed. "Last year I had visions for a while. I was going around like I was a medium. It was freaking him out, and me too. I don't want him to think I'm going psychic on him again."

"Understood." The way Sam described Dean reminded Neal of the way Peter acted. The man excelled at worrying more than anyone he'd ever known, and Neal seemed to incite his natural talent to new heights.

Neal photographed the sketch of Scott's dream woman with his camera then began examining the paintings. Scott may have had a hard time selling his paintings, but he clearly had no difficulty in producing them. Sam asked how he could help, and Neal asked him to search for other portraits while he checked the loft. Those paintings had been tagged with dates. Scott or Melissa had taken a stab at cataloguing them chronologically.

He was still working in the loft when Peter and Dean arrived.

"We need to head out," Dean said. "We'll catch up with you tonight."

"Can we help?" Neal asked.

Dean glanced over at him skeptically. "Is there a new technique to take out vamps with a paintbrush?"

"Don't feel bad," Peter said. "He turned me down, too."

"You're amateurs," Dean said bluntly. "You'd both be liabilities. Besides you've got your case here." He scanned the room. "I'm no good at sorting through this stuff. We may be back before you're done."

After Dean and Sam left, Neal described Melissa's account to Peter. The sketch was the only portrait of her they could find.

Scott had one unfinished work still on the easel. Stylistically it was quite different from his earlier works. Neal returned to it several times as he compared it with other works. Would Peter see the same pattern? Neal chose ten paintings and placed them next to the unfinished work.

"What am I supposed to be seeing in these?" Peter asked.

Neal frowned as he studied them. "Look at this painting on the easel. His early works remind me of Peter Poskas. Rural scenes, clean lines. They're peaceful, serene, and timeless. Light is a key element—" He broke off. "Sorry, I didn't mean to deliver a lecture."

"That's okay. I see where you're going with this." Peter pointed to the one on the easel. "This is the polar opposite. If I were forced to describe it, I'd say chaotic and turbulent."

"Exactly. And you can see the progression in these paintings." Neal pointed to one after the other. "Scott's going dark side. The subjects become increasingly tortured and disturbing. They're all landscapes, but by the time you get to this last painting, the trees are in the death-throes of something profoundly disturbing. I admit I have Goya on my brain, but Scott's works remind me of Goya who started off in the light rococo and wound up with nightmarish surrealist visions."

Peter looked thoughtful. "I've read about Goya. He had a nervous breakdown and prolonged illnesses."

Neal nodded. "Critics have used mental illness, brain tumor, lead poisoning, and other problems to explain the horrific visions he painted. Scott appeared to be following the same destructive course." It had to be a freakish coincidence but all the same it was disturbing.

On the drive back to the inn, Neal continued to think about what could have made Scott pursue such a bleak path in his painting.

Peter wheeled into the parking lot. "What's bothering you? You've barely said a word. You didn't even mock my driving, and I deliberately took a turn too fast."

Neal grinned. "You must have thought I'm sick. No, it's the case. The artist."

Peter glanced over at him. "You identify with him."

"I suppose. His life was snuffed out just when he had everything to live for."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Coming next week, Neal and Peter visit a witch-house while Dean and Sam are off chasing vampires. The wild woods of Connecticut are about to get even wilder._

_Many thanks to Penna Nomen for taking time out from a very hectic period in her life to dispense beta wisdom and brainstorm ideas. Thanks also to you for reading and your comments!_

_Pettibone's Tavern and the Simsbury 1820 House are real establishments, and yes, the inn has a small art gallery. It's on my list to visit someday. Bridget Bishop, Alse Young, and Debby Griffen are historical figures. But the record is inconclusive as to whether or not they were actually witches. Peter told Neal about Joe tricking him on Halloween in The Woman in Blue. Their run-in with vampires occurred in Whispers in the Night._

_Dean and Sam drive around the country with an arsenal of weapons in their trunk, but firearms aren't the only tools of power—not for them and certainly not for Neal. For this week's blog I wrote about Neal and the hidden power of flowers._

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Witches' Sabbath board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. The Witch-House

**Simsbury. May 15, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

"More vampires?" Chloe asked, shocked. "I thought Dean said they'd gone nearly extinct. Don't tell me a 'Save the Vampires' group has been reintroducing populations. I'm all for saving wolves, but vampires?"

Peter was in full agreement. On the drive up to Simsbury, he'd been comforted by the thought he only had witches to deal with. How did vampires reenter the equation? This was one job he was happily leaving to Dean and Sam. They could even use their fake IDs and he wouldn't say a word.

He and Neal had returned to the inn to discover Chloe was already back. She'd pulled up a side table next to a wing chair in the parlor and was working on her laptop. They sat down on the chintz sofa opposite her. Neal appeared to have shaken off his moodiness about Scott. Peter was surprised how much he'd been affected by Scott's experience. None of their previous cases had involved an artist. Hagen was a forger but didn't create his own works. With Scott, Neal appeared to take it personally.

"How did your foray into the woods go?" Neal asked. "You'd said you'd be out all afternoon."

She nodded. "I thought I'd search the sanctuary until dark with nothing to show for it. Instead, I immediately found the colony. I've never heard of such a healthy stand of pogonias. There must have been at least eighty plants. I checked the native plant database, and the largest reported stand found in the last thirty years was twenty-two plants. This is unprecedented and I have no explanation. A sister in my coven has a friend who's an herbalist here, Sage Racinda. I called her and am going to meet her. She may know more about it."

"We should go with you," Neal declared.

"An herbalist," Peter repeated. He didn't have to say, _Are you nuts_. He was sure his face already broadcasted it.

"Yes, an herbalist," Neal said firmly. "We have a photo of someone who may be the witch. If she is, wouldn't an herbalist know about her?" Neal seemed to be much more comfortable about investigating witches than Peter was. Wicca, herbalists, witches . . . Real estate fraud would seem so sweet after this case.

The Angelica Herb Shop was only a few blocks from the inn. The title made it sound fancier than it was. In reality the "shop" was the kitchen of a small cottage on a rural lane in Simsbury. Peter needed to wait for the chickens to scatter before pulling up on the gravel drive. A small black-and-white goat was grazing on the lawn. It raised its head to check them out but apparently decided they were harmless and resumed munching grass. Extensive herb gardens extended along the sides of the cottage.

"You're a farm boy. You should feel right at home," Neal said as they got out of the car.

"My parents live in suburbia, not on a farm. No goats or chickens in our neighborhood. The horse farms are a few miles away."

He shrugged. "Compared to the sparrows and pigeons of Manhattan, that sounds like a farm to me."

"Chester, come here!" A woman walked out of the cottage. Not exactly a shepherdess but she did have a peasant air about her. She looked to be in her late-twenties and was wearing a long chintz peasant dress with sturdy sandals. Walking up to the goat, she stroked it while smiling a greeting at them. "Chloe?" She cupped her right hand into a C-shape. "Merry meet."

Chloe gave her the same hand greeting. "Blessed be," and introduced Peter and Neal to Sage.

Was he supposed to do the same thing? Chloe hadn't mentioned any Wiccan rituals. Peter opted instead for the comfortable flash-them-your-badge greeting.

The shelves of Sage's kitchen were lined with canning jars filled with dried herbs. More herbs dangled from ladders which had been suspended horizontally from the ceiling to make drying racks. The pungent air made Peter long for herbal goat cheese and bread. He made a mental note to find out if she sold cheese.

Sage was amazed at Chloe's description of the pogonia colony she'd found. "I'd visited that site last summer and could only find one or two plants. I'm at a loss to explain why there are so many pogonias there now, but we need to inform the Connecticut Botanical Society. They'll be overjoyed at the news."

Neal pulled out the photo Melissa had taken of Scott and the woman in the woods and asked her if she recognized them.

She pointed to the man. "That's Scott Pembroke. Such a shame what happened to him. Scott and Melissa have been friends and customers for many years now. He used to come by regularly for my goat cheese."

"And the woman?" Peter asked.

She studied it at length. "She looks a little like Alcy Lancaster, although whenever I've seen her, her hair's been pulled back into a chignon. She lives in Windsor. She's also a customer—she particularly likes my skullcap."

"Say that again." Peter asked, startled. Was skullcap a Wiccan headdress?

"American skullcap," she explained, breaking into a smile as if she read his mind. "It's a member of the mint family. I have the reputation of being the best source for American Skullcap in the Northeast. I visited Alcy's home once. She hosted an Herb Society meeting there last fall. She has a lovely old Victorian home in Windsor."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On the return drive to the inn Neal rode with Chloe in the back. He hoped she'd satisfy his curiosity about Wiccan practices. "Is Sage a member of your coven?"

"No, she's not a member of the Alyssum Sisterhood, but my friend told me she was also a Wiccan. When I saw how she greeted us, it was obvious."

"Why did you join a Wiccan coven if you wanted to learn about witches?"

"I've been trying to join a witch coven but haven't had any success. The Wiccan ones have welcomed me with open arms. It seems that Wiccans like to think of themselves as witches, but you can't say the same for witches. I'm told a witch may consider being called a Wiccan an insult."

"And why is that?" Peter asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror. "What's the difference between witches and Wiccans?"

"That's not easy to explain. Wicca started in England in the 1950s. Wiccans claim it's a pagan religion.  The two main deities they worship are the Moon Goddess and the Horned God. Witches believe theirs is a spiritual practice, and that the magic of Wicca is very different from witchcraft magic." Chloe shrugged. "I haven't been able to do any magic of either kind, so I may not be the best judge. Recently Wiccan covens have begun cropping up on college campuses. The Alyssum Sisterhood started at Yale University. Since many Wiccans also study traditional witchcraft, I've found them a good reference source."

"What's the significance to the hand gesture you used with Sage?" Neal asked.

"That's the symbol for the crescent moon. Covens often have their own gestures. In the Alyssum Sisterhood, we use gestures for the full moon and the crescent moon. Those terms we used, _Merry Meet_ and _Blessed Be_ , are also standard Wiccan greetings."

"Do you use gestures with Dean?"

She grinned. "We've invented our own set."

Peter joined Neal in plying Chloe with questions, but nothing she said had any bearing on the circumstances of Scott's death. As far as Neal could tell, the Wiccans were harmless, just another New Age cult.

When they arrived back at the inn, they fetched their laptops from their rooms and resumed their research in the parlor. At that hour of the day no one else was using it.

"The given name is so unusual," Chloe mused. "It reminds me of Alse Young. She also lived in Windsor in the 1600s."

"What happened to her?" Peter asked.

"She was hanged for witchcraft—the first woman recorded to be executed for witchcraft in America."

"Alcy Lancaster doesn't have a criminal record," Peter said, looking up from his laptop. "Her fingerprints aren't in the database."

"She's lived in the house for the past ten years. No mortgage," Neal added. "Her occupation is listed as writer."

"While you were searching your files, I've been chatting with my Wiccan sisters," Chloe said. "One of them knew her, and I should too. She writes historical romances. They all take place in Victorian England."

"Under her name?" Neal asked.

"No. As Olivia Vernon."

Peter typed the name on his laptop and pulled up a page. "According to the reviews, she mixes gothic horror with steamy romance. Supposedly she's attracted a small cult following among the steampunk crowd."

Neal leaned over to read the page. "That would explain her clothes. She dresses like the times she's writing about."

"Here's a publicity photo of her," Chloe said, swiveling her laptop around.

The woman looking out at them had her hair pulled back and was wearing more makeup—full red lips, smoky eyes—but she could be the same woman Melissa photographed in the woods with Scott. Neal looked over at Peter. "I've never been to Windsor. Shouldn't we pay her a call?"

Peter nodded. "We can question her about her whereabouts on Friday and also ask about Scott. But if she's a witch, the indirect approach may be better." He exhaled noisily and scratched the side of his head. "The FBI manual doesn't cover interrogation tactics for witches."

Neal snapped his fingers. "We'll stop at a bookstore in the Windsor mall and pick up one of her books. She's a local celebrity. The bookstores must carry all her books. Then we can ask for her autograph. If we flash our badges, she might turn us into toads."

Peter glowered at him. "That's not helpful."

"I'm going with you," Chloe declared.

Peter shook his head firmly. "Sorry. That's not happening. Someone needs to be here to explain the situation to Dean and Sam if we haven't returned by the time they come back."

"Why don't you simply call and leave them a message? I could be your girl Friday. She'd probably much more likely talk to me. I could ask her for tips on writing." Chloe pulled out all the stops, but Peter had his ears back and wasn't budging. Neal could have told her to spare her breath. Peter assured her he'd call with any news and he'd also inform Dean and Sam, but not until they knew something.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

By the time they arrived at the suspected witch's house, Peter was starting to have second thoughts. Rather than getting out of the car, he sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel. In another minute he would turn the ignition back on. "We should have stopped by the local police and asked for their assistance."

"With what? A witch? Allow me to roll my eyes, which is exactly what they'd do. They'd laugh us out of the station."

Peter huffed. "I know that. I was going to say with an escaped fugitive."

"But we have no proof Hagen's in Connecticut, let alone holed up in a Victorian mansion in Windsor." Neal opened the door before Peter could drive away and started toward the front walk. Peter had no choice but to follow.

Was the place a witch-house? Neal would have pictured a witch-house as being creepier but this one would do. The house had good lines. If it'd been better taken care of, it would have been a showplace. The ornate gables with their gingerbread and leaded glass lancet windows had potential, but it was badly in need of a paint job. In the light of a full moon with bats flying around the chimney, the atmosphere would have been perfect.

They'd stopped off at a bookstore on the way and picked up a copy of her latest book, _The Scent of Laudanum_. Neal opened the gate on the weathered picket fence. It gave a satisfying creak. Witch gates should always creak. Peter was still grumbling but he walked up the brick path with Neal. The front door needed a coat of varnish but the beveled glass pattern was striking. No spider webs with black widows waiting to bite the unsuspecting visitor. When Neal rang the doorbell, he peered through the glass to see if anyone was inside. And if he happened to check for the presence of a security keypad, it was simply to see if she were home. But there was no keypad to observe.

"Stop that. She'll think you're a peeping tom."

"No, just an eager fan. What's your plan? Ask her if she materialized in a prison and teleported the Dutchman away?"

Peter glared at him. "No, hotshot. First I'll question her about Scott and if she knows anything about his illness. Based on her answers, I'll ask about her whereabouts on the twelfth and thirteenth of May."

"It doesn't look like we'll get the chance. No one's answering. I don't see any lights on inside."

"If she'd left, she might have left lights on to give the appearance someone was at home." Peter grimaced. "She's probably down in the basement, stirring her cauldron."

"As long as we're here, we might as well check out the perimeter. We should keep an eye out for any black cats or broomsticks. Remember when your brother played the witch's broomstick trick on you when you were a kid? What was it about the broomstick that deceived you? Because, frankly, Peter, I'm shocked that you couldn't tell the real thing from what must have a dime-store prop. I thought your observational powers even at an early age were fully developed. It makes me wonder what I could pull off without you being aware of. Should we test out the broomstick con on White Collar? I know. I'll call Joe and—"

"Enough!" Peter bellowed. "That's the last story about my childhood you'll ever hear from me. I'll head right. You circle around to the left."

"Aye, aye, captain." Neal walked till he reached the side of the house and then broke into a run. It hadn't been difficult to be so obnoxious that Peter would insist on separating for the search. For what he had in mind, he didn't want Peter around.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"The back door is ajar?" Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal's look of innocent surprise. "That's suspiciously convenient."

"I couldn't believe it either. I was patrolling the side of the house as you suggested and came upon it. A burglar might have entered. There could be a crime in progress. Don't we need to check it out?"

Peter gave a slow exhale. "We would be neglecting our duty otherwise." He pulled out his gun from his shoulder holster. "I go in first."

Neal eyed the firearm dubiously. "I don't know if guns work against witches."

Peter opened the door. "I realize that. Dean warned me that guns are ineffective with demons. But maybe we'll be lucky, and she's the homegrown variety with no demonic powers." He stopped and shook his head, muttering. "I can't believe I just said that. There's a chance she's not a witch at all. She might have used hypnosis on the guards. Besides, do you have anything better to suggest?"

"Didn't Dorothy use a bucket of water in _The Wizard of Oz_?"

"You want to carry a container of water around? Be my guest. I look forward to telling Dean about it."

"On second thought. . . ." Was Peter devious enough to use Dean as a bargaining chip? By the smirk on his face, he would indeed stoop that low.

Once they entered the house, the mood changed. Neal couldn't define it, but there was something about the house that was distinctly ominous. For a brief moment he thought about suggesting they wait for Dean and Sam. But Peter already had his grim FBI agent face on. Neal stopped fooling around and shapeshifted into thief mode. They were both on the prowl. The Winchesters might be better hunters, but when it came to breaking and entering, no one topped Neal Caffrey.

The back door took them to a utility room with washing machine and dryer. Gardening clothes and a work jacket hung from clothes pegs. In the distance Neal could hear the faint sound of a clock ticking. No barking dogs. Any cats were staying hidden.

Peter called out in a loud voice, announcing their presence. They stood motionless for a minute, but there was no reply. After a quick sweep of the kitchen, they moved through the open doorway into the dining room and from there to the front parlor. Impossible to call that mausoleum a living room. All the rooms were cluttered with dark, heavy Victorian furniture. There was barely room to walk around the piles of cushions, old magazines, and books on the floor. Alcy—Mozzie had taught Neal to call marks by their first names to help gain their trust—surrounded herself in the period about which she wrote. Even the kitchen stove was a retro porcelain model. Heavy curtains covered all the windows, letting in no sunlight. Tapestries were draped over the china cabinets. What kind of books must she write with this kind of writer's cave?

They entered a long dark hallway which ran from the front entrance to a staircase in the back of the house. "I'll check the upstairs," Peter said. He switched on his flashlight. "Give me a shout if you find anything."

Neal explored the corridor. Several doors opened off it. Coat closet, powder room . . . Neal opened one door which led to the basement. He'd wait for Peter to explore that area. The next door led into a small office. Normally he would have gone immediately to the desk, but not now. The walls had several portraits—mostly oils, but also some charcoal and pencil sketches. Next to the light switch was a portrait of Scott Pembroke. It was unsigned but appeared to be in his style. Had he painted a self-portrait for Alcy?

Neal took out his camera and began snapping photos. The room was windowless. There was no overhead light, and the light on the desk didn't work. He left the door open from the hallway, but the room was still dim.

A few of the portraits appeared familiar. There was one which looked a lot like Percy Shelley. Next to it was a painting which could be a twin to a pencil self-portrait of John Constable which was hanging in the Tate in London. Neal examined it more closely. Could it possibly be an original? If it weren't, whoever had done it was an expert forger. Neal photographed all the artworks on the walls.

In the darkest corner of the room, an oil painting hung by itself. As he approached it, Neal's jaw dropped. A Titian? Neal examined the painting. Painted with oils. A little over two feet tall. It appeared identical to a self-portrait by Titian he'd studied in Berlin. The clothes were the same. The pose. The use of color. Neal stared at it more closely. There was no mistaking that nose—it had to be Titian. He was wearing a necklace in the painting just like the painting in Berlin. No, not quite. This necklace had a tiny scorpion dangling from it. Neal began photographing the painting. Close-up, at a distance, every inch. . . .

"What did you find?"

Neal had been so focused on the art, he hadn't heard Peter come up behind him. "Wonderful things!" he blurted. "Unknown masterpieces. This has to be a Titian!"

"You're serious?"

"I wouldn't joke about something like this." Neal resumed snapping photos.

Peter studied it. "Did she buy these or is she an art thief too?"

"I've never seen any of these in a museum but I recognized some of the subjects—Shelley, Constable, Yeats."

"Could they be forgeries Hagen prepared for her?"

"Possibly some of them; although I don't think he has the skill to forge a Titian such as this one. And where would he have acquired the originals? Did you see the portrait of Scott Pembroke?"

He nodded. "We'll spend more time with them, but right now our priority has to be Hagen. Now that you've discovered she has an interest in art, it's much more likely she has a connection to Hagen. The bedrooms upstairs show no sign of him. Only the master bedroom appears to be used. I checked the clothing and they're all for a woman."

"Did you find the clothes Alcy wore in the prison?"

"No. Let's search the basement."

There was no need for Peter's flashlight as they crept down the stairs. The light switch worked fine. No flickering lights either. No moans or clangs of rattling chains coming from below. But the stairs were old and worn as was everything in the house. And it was still creepy enough that any levity Neal might have felt at sneaking into a witch's basement deserted him.

Peter had his gun drawn and gestured for silence. Neal continued in cat burglar mode. He felt no need for a gun, and he easily beat Peter for stealth. He made a mental note to teach Peter how to walk without making a sound.

He thought back to old _X-Files_ episodes he'd watched with Mozzie . . . Mulder and Scully going down the stairs, armed only with a flashlight. Would he find a witch or something worse? That swamp spirit in Buttonwood had seemed otherworldly. Neal made a vow to stop listening to Mozzie's tales of extraterrestrial aliens possessing bodies. If he'd come along, Mozzie would be speculating that Alcy was being controlled by a giant slimy being with five eyes and green antennas. Whatever she was, at least Neal would be able to see her. The light switch for the stairs also worked overhead lights in the basement.

At the foot of the stairs Neal paused in stunned silence along with Peter. Near the far wall of the basement an iron cage had been erected and within it was Curtis Hagen. The Dutchman. Neal exchanged relieved grins with Peter. They'd found their quarry.

Hagen appeared to be asleep. Still clad in his orange prison coveralls, he was lying flat on his back on a cot. The cage was empty otherwise. A hole in the ground served as a primitive toilet. The scruff he'd had on the prison feed was rapidly turning into a full beard.

In front of the cage a design had been drawn in red chalk on the concrete floor. It appeared to be a pentagram. There were strange unknown symbols around it. Peter had already taken out his camera and was snapping photos. Neal did the same.

_Slam!_

Neal whirled to look. "What was that?"

"Sounded like the door at the top of the stairs. I'll check it out." While Peter headed back to the stairs, Neal began examining the cage holding Hagen. It was roughly twelve feet square and free standing. The base was bolted to the concrete floor. The door had a slot for food to be passed through. A tray with an empty plate and water bottle lay on the floor. Neal suspected Hagen was drugged or unconscious. He'd displayed no indication of having heard them.

Neal heard Peter call his name and he returned to the stairs. Peter was standing next to the door at the top. "It's locked. Could you do your cat burglar thing?" He descended the stairs to give Neal room to operate.

"At your service." Neal felt along the back collar of his jacket, pulled out his miniature lock pick, and jogged up the stairs. Peter no longer protested or even commented that Neal always came equipped.

The door had a simple interior lock. He made a face. Peter should have been able to open it with a few twists of the handle. Was he trying to see if Neal carried a lock pick? _Sneaky, Peter._

Neal bit back the sarcastic remark, inserted his lock pick, jiggled, and . . . nothing happened.

"Hmm." He tried it again. The lock wouldn't budge. With a grunt, Neal pulled out a second tool and got to work.

"Stop messing around and open it."

"I'm trying. The lock's jammed."

"What? Are you telling me that Neal Caffrey, master thief, can't open an inside door?"

Neal huffed and attempted it one last time. "No good. We'll have to force it open, and please hold your sarcasm for later."

When Peter mounted the stairs, both of them threw their weight on the door—several times—stopping only when their shoulders cried out for relief.

"It's like we're ramming into a stone wall," Peter said, stating the obvious in exasperation.

"It's not just that." Neal inspected the edge of the door. "It's like it's hermetically sealed. There's no daylight anywhere. The door's not that thick. It's not made of iron. This shouldn't be happening."

Peter pulled out his phone. "I'll call the local police then alert Dean."

His plan was solid, but the execution was sorely lacking. Neither one of their cell phones could connect. They were in a dead zone. Neal quickly scanned the walls. No windows anywhere. Didn't building codes require windows? What kind of trap was this? Despite his words, Neal hadn't actually believed this was a witch-house, but the locked door, the pentagram  . . . A reassessment might be in order.

They returned to Hagen who still had his eyes closed. Neal tried his luck on the door to the cage, but it resisted his efforts as well. After several minutes of frustration, Neal turned to Peter, not believing what he was saying but what else could it be? "It has to be a spell. You know me. You know my skill. There's simply no way I could be stymied like this. It's not natural."

Peter took a slow breath. "I won't dispute it. If we can revive Hagen, he may be able to help." They began shouting his name.

Hagen started to twitch.

"Hagen!" Peter barked in a tone that would made Neal rise up from a dead sleep and snap to attention. "Wake up, man!"

"Who's yelling? Can't a man sleep?" Hagen rolled over and opened his eyes. He stared at them, blinking furiously. "Not real, just another vision."

"We're real, all right, and I'm hereby placing you under custody."

"Praise the Lord! What are you waiting for? Arrest me! Throw me in prison. Put me in maximum security."

"I wish we could. We can't open your cage."

"No!" he cried, his expression turning to panic. "Is that you, Caffrey? I heard you can open anything. Don't hold a grudge. I didn't ask for this. Help a brother out!"

Neal shook his head doubtfully. "I'll give it another try, but don't count on it." While he worked on the door. Peter grilled Hagen about what had happened in the prison.

"I can't explain it, Burke. One minute I was trying to get some sleep and failing miserably—you really should do something about those deplorable mattresses—prisoners have rights, you know. I would be completely justified in reporting you to the United Nations Human Rights Council."

"Stuff it, Hagen. What happened next?"

"There I was stretched out on my bed, planning my new life of good deeds. I rolled over and a woman appeared out of thin air. She looked like someone out of Dickens. Long Victorian gown, frock coat, dark hair pulled back. Except the mask. It was one of those elaborate Venetian masks. She commanded me to get up, and"—Hagen rubbed his face—"it was like she jerked me by the strings. I was powerless to resist her. The door to my cell was open." He paused to view Neal scornfully. "Obviously she wasn't an amateur like Fumble-Fingers here. We strolled down the prison corridor and out of the cell block."

"And no one stopped you?" Peter demanded.

He shook his head. "It was like they couldn't see us."

Neal stood up. "It won't budge. The pins are frozen in place." He turned to Hagen. "How did you get in the cage?"

He shrugged. "Magic pixie dust? I have no idea. She didn't look like Mary Poppins, but perhaps Miss Poppins had a makeover. When we arrived at the front reception area, she snapped her fingers. I saw smoke, heard a faint pop, and found myself in this cage when the smoke cleared. She wasn't here. Didn't have the manners to explain why I was once more locked up in conditions even more deplorable than before." He paused to look at them questioningly. "Where is _here_ by the way? What foul-smelling den of iniquity did I land into?"

"You're in a basement in Windsor."

His eyes widened. "I'm being held by the Queen?"

"No, doofus. You're in Windsor, Connecticut."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, excuse me for not being current on the hamlets you have in the colonies."

Peter rolled his eyes wearily. "I've half a mind to leave you here."

Neal pulled Peter aside. "And that raises the question—how will _we_ get out of here?"

"I hate to say it, but we may have to wait for Dean and Sam. Chloe will tell them where we are."

"What if the witch returns?"

"Stop muttering," Hagen complained. "That's not polite. What day is it?"

"Sunday afternoon. You've been here over two days. Have you seen the woman since you were brought here?"

He nodded. "A couple of times. Twice a day she brings a tray of food—and miserable stuff it is."

"Same time every day?" Peter asked.

"How would I know? She didn't return my watch that your henchmen took from me. But I suppose morning and evening. I get a foul porridge for breakfast and watery soup with bread at night. The only good thing is that soon I'll be skinny enough to slip through the bars."

"Has she said anything to you?"

He shook his head. "Next to nothing. Tells me to wait."

"Wait for what?" Peter demanded.

Irritated, he rolled his eyes. "You don't think I asked? That's all she's said. I seem to sleep most of the time."

She must have been drugging his food but what was the point of telling him? Instead, Neal asked, "Did you paint anything for her?"

Hagen stared at him. "Are you nuts? Do you see an easel, paints?"

"You forged a painting by Titian, _Salome_."

"So?"

"Did you ever forge a self-portrait of Titian?"

He gazed at him in perplexity. "No. Why? Are you offering me a commission?"

Neal tried to quiz him on the other paintings but Hagen appeared genuinely ignorant of all of them. Peter meanwhile was anxious to explore the rest of the basement.

"We can question him more later," he advised. "We've got a more pressing problem on our hands, and that's what to do when the witch returns."

"Do we have to call Alcy a witch?" Neal asked. He'd had enough of witches to last a lifetime. They didn't play fair.

Peter sighed. "Would you rather me call her a demon? Whatever she is, our best hope will be to escape when she comes downstairs. If we can find a place to hide, perhaps we can sneak up the staircase when she takes food to Hagen."

"Unless she can smell us. Do witches have a keen sense of smell?"

"That's vampires. At least that's what Sam said. So now you're back to thinking she's a witch?"

"I'm still weighing my options." Neal joined Peter in checking out the other rooms. The basement had several large pieces of furniture—old bedsteads, dressers, sofas with worn upholstery, some old trunks. The laundry room was in a back corner. Neal thought briefly about hiding in one of the large wardrobes which were scattered about, but then they wouldn't be able to sneak out. In the end, they decided their best hope was to hide behind the stairs in the stairwell. The basement was so dark, she might not see them.

They returned to Hagen and explained their plan. The only chance he had to escape his cage was for them to be able to bring back others and he was smart enough to realize it. He promised not to inform on them and Neal trusted that in this instance he'd keep his word.

Peter opened a large steamer trunk which was near the cage and began searching through its contents but Neal had more questions for Hagen. "Did you ever dream about the woman?"

"Who? The witch? You think I hallucinated what happened?" He glared at Neal suspiciously. "Is this your nasty way to lock me up in a nuthouse? Well, it won't work. I demand decent living conditions. Civilized food—"

"Answer the question," Peter growled.

Hagen swiped his hand across his face and thought a moment. "A few times over the past several months," he muttered, "I may have seen her."

"In your dreams what kind of clothes does she wear?" Neal persisted.

He sighed. "She's dressed for a party. I see her in a picture gallery. Large candelabra. Her hair's piled up high on her head." His description matched the sketch Scott had made.

Peter stopped his search and joined Neal next to the cage. "The clothes she wore on Friday were stuffed into the trunk." He turned to Hagen. "Have you felt ill?"

"Well, yeah, Burke. I've been in prison. Bad mattress, poor food. Need I go on?"

"Before prison," Neal clarified. "Once the dreams started, did you have feel like you were wasting away?" He winced at the words, but how else to describe it?

"At last someone cares about me. I'm touched. Truly."

Peter exhaled slowly. "I'll take that as a no."

"That's right. Much as I'd like to sue you bastards for the emotional distress caused by you chasing me all these years, I can't say that I've been wasting away because of it."

Feeling stupid for asking, Neal persevered. "What about Goya?"

A flash of wariness crossed his face. "What do you mean?"

"You studied his witchcraft paintings at the Goya exhibition at the Met. You forged his _Witches' Sabbath_. Was that some sort of premonition?"

He grimaced. "That painting  . . . there's something weird about it. I got a commission to paint the forgery. Was paid handsomely. Much more than the going rate. That's ancient history though. Must be four years now." He glanced over at Peter. "I didn't steal the original, you know."

Peter scowled. "Someone did and replaced it with your painting. When we discovered the original in a warehouse, we realized the switch had been made."

"Funny you mention it." He gave a dry chuckle. "I remember at the time thinking I was putting too much effort into the forgery. Those hags in the painting. I was seeing them wherever I looked." He grew serious. "You're an artist, Caffrey. Ever feel a special affinity with one of the greats? Like they're in your head?"

"Yeah, I do."

He shrugged. "Well, I don't—at least not normally. Goya's different, though. After I painted that painting, I got him, in a way I did no one else. Guess we were soul mates from then on." He hesitated. "You understand, don't you?"

"I believe so."

"It's as if once I painted that painting, I couldn't let go. I found myself visiting all his exhibits. Have you seen his Black Paintings?" At Neal's nod, he continued. "When I looked at them, I could see myself inside them."

"Was there any particular reason you picked that Titian to forge?" Neal asked.

"That was another odd case." He scratched his chin as he considered for a moment. "Would you believe it came to me in a dream? That's the only time it ever happened. I concocted the entire heist in my head while I was asleep. I even painted the forgery. When I woke up, I couldn't believe what I'd done. It was child's play to steal the painting. I simply followed the plan I'd made in my dream. I guess you could say I'd been ordained to take it. For nights I was dreaming of a woman in a Venetian mask." He shrugged. "I figured I was inhaling too many paint fumes."

"Was it the witch who brought you here?"

"It's been too long ago and she wore a mask, remember? I can remember thinking at the time that she was Salome urging me on."

Peter was listening to them while keeping an eye on the stairs. He nudged Neal. "It's getting late. We should move into position. If she stays true to her schedule, she'll return soon." Turning to Hagen he added, "Your best shot at escaping Goya's hell is that we first escape and bring back reinforcements."

Hagen nodded. "I never thought I'd hear myself pleading for a prison cell, but there's a first time for everything."

Neal and Peter retreated to their hiding place under the stairs. Neal leaned against an old wardrobe. It was dusty and would leave marks on his jacket. Now he understood why Dean and Sam favored fatigues and rough clothes. If he did much more of this, he'd have to acquire an undercover hunter wardrobe too.

They'd been waiting about thirty minutes when they heard the faint slam of a door upstairs. Peter nodded at him. If Alcy behaved according to pattern, she'd be carrying a tray. They hoped to dash upstairs when she approached the cage.

It was a good plan, but would it work against a witch? All bets were off.

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Neal doesn't give them high odds for being able to escape, and he's right. While he and Peter wait for Alcy to return, you might like to visit my Pinterest board to see the paintings Neal found in the office as well as photos of Alcy and Scott._

_Neal and Peter have studied each other to the point they know precisely which trigger to use to provoke the desired reaction. Peter's not above deliberately swerving through a turn to get Neal to pay attention. Penna played with that concept in Chapter 2 of Choirboy Caffrey. In this chapter Neal acts like an annoying kid brother in order for Peter to leave him alone long enough to pick Alcy's back door. I included another nod to Penna's stories when Neal refers to Mozzie teaching him to call a mark by their first name. Neal explains the concept in Chapter 5 of Caffrey Conversation._

_Not all triggers are lighthearted. Fear triggers are the topic of my blog post this week, called "Things that go bump in the night."_

_My thanks as always to Penna for her help with this chapter and to you for reading and commenting!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Witches' Sabbath board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	4. A King Is Crowned

**The Witch-House. Sunday, May 15, 2005**

From his hiding position under the stairs, Neal heard muffled footsteps and the creak of a door opening. That door had been frozen solid for them. The witch must have removed the curse. Her dress swished on the wood steps. Neal caught glimpses of a midnight blue damask skirt. She wore a strange fragrance. Heady, almost nauseatingly sweet. He tensed his muscles to dash upstairs as soon as she'd left the staircase. Peter was preparing to do the same. They exchanged quick nods and leaned forward.

But witches aren't easily fooled.

With a _whoosh_ she was no longer on the staircase but standing in front of them, less than two feet away. Alcy wore a floor-length Victorian dress, the bodice of which had a lace filigree of scorpions. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. There was no doubt she was the same woman that Scott had sketched. She was beautiful  . . . and terrifying.

"What's this?" she said, with a voice silky smooth, her lips curling into a smile. "You've come to play? How delightful. You're a little old for hide-and-seek. What can I find to amuse you? Perhaps a round of darts?"

She swept her hand in front of them, freezing him in place as if he were a statue. He could move his eyes but nothing else. Neal slanted a glance at Peter and he appeared also transfixed.

She turned her stare on Peter. Raising a hand, she uttered a single command: _"Exafanisou!"_

Peter was slammed sideways as if he were a sheet of paper caught up in a cyclone. He was hurled against the opposite wall some fifteen feet away. Instead of crumpling against it, he appeared glued to the plasterboard, his feet about twelve inches off the floor. His eyes blinked from the force of the collision, but his face remained expressionless.

She switched her gaze to Neal. _"Exafanisou!"_

Neal was blasted next to Peter. The back of his head crashed into the wall, making him see stars. For a moment everything dissolved into a blur.

She wasn't done with them. Neal strained to pry himself free as she glided toward them. She measured Peter up and down with her eyes. Extending her right index finger, she touched his throat and murmured some words Neal couldn't hear. She pressed one long fingernail into his throat till it bled. She then swiped a finger over the wound and licked it off, all the while staring deep into his eyes. Peter's facial expression was frozen, but his eyes narrowed in a look of defiance. No words came out of his throat. Like Neal, he must be incapable of speech.

With a shrug, she murmured something to him and stroked his face before turning her attention to Neal.

Her face was now within inches of him, her dark eyes threatening to engulf him. "You think you can enter the scorpion's nest without being stung?" she whispered. Her breath was ice on his skin. Her scent was overwhelming. She could exsanguinate him, do anything to him. He was powerless to resist.

She took her index finger and slowly drew it up his chest to his throat. "Should I kill you now? Or do you have another destiny?" Her finger dug into his throat, a sword of ice penetrating his lungs. Neal could see now that the black scorpions in her lace bodice had blood-red crystals dangling from their stingers.

She withdrew her finger to lick the blood, her tongue darting out like a serpent's. The sadistic expression on her face was the worst of all. "A jawline that goes on for days. Yes, I understand." She took her finger and traced his jawbone. When she reached his chin, she jabbed it up, her eyes slanting with pleasure.

An instant later she turned away, her eyes once more on Peter. "Would you like to watch the show before you die? What was that? Is there something wrong with your voice? Let me guess. You prefer to die now." She considered a moment and nodded. "Yes, of course. Even when you arrive uninvited, I'm happy to satisfy your wishes."

Her eyes glittering, she raised a hand and stretched out her fingers. Sparks of electricity shot off them.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

_Damn. Sam was still bleeding._

"Here." Dean dug into the door side pocket and tossed his brother a rag. "Do something about the blood. Dude, you're dripping on the upholstery. There may be a little gauze left in the kit." He slanted a glance over at him to make sure Sam followed his orders. The arm wound wasn't bad but they should have taken the time to bandage it more carefully. Next time they stopped to replenish their stock, they'd need to buy additional first-aid supplies.

Lately, every time they hunted, Sam got injured. This time there really was no excuse. They'd only faced a couple of lousy vamps, and weak ones at that. They must not have fed in a long time. Dean could have managed both of them on his own. How did Sam let the one get the better of him? He damned near got bitten.

Had he caught some plague from one of the dives they'd stayed at? Or was he eating too much green stuff instead of red meat? The next time Sam ordered a salad, Dean vowed to lay down the law. But his gut was telling him it was something else. Sam hadn't been sleeping well for weeks. Even though he got hours more sleep than Dean, he woke up looking exhausted. But Sam refused to admit anything was wrong. What was he hiding?

Sam looked up from the map. "We're almost there. Chloe found a picture of the house online and described it to me. A distinctive gingerbread house like that should be easy to spot."

"How long has it been since they left?"

"Over two hours ago. I'll try calling again." Sam called both Neal and Peter's numbers. No answer. He then called Chloe but she hadn't heard anything either.

"Amateurs," Dean growled. "You'd think they'd know by now to wait for us."

"Chloe said they were worried that if Hagen was holed up there, he could have left with the witch before we got back."

"So now we have to rescue them and maybe Hagen as well." Dean grimaced. "Typical."

"Yeah, about that—any ideas on how we'll handle the witch?"

"I dunno. With the powers she's demonstrated, Bobby reckons she has to be a demon. Assuming he's right, we'll have to resort to our standard demon techniques. Holy water, exorcism"—he shrugged—"rescue the vics then run like hell." He glanced over at Sam. "You stay in the car. I'll take care of it."

Sam turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. "Let you go in there alone? No way."

"Sorry. I can't risk it. Your strength isn't a hundred percent and you know it."

"Dean, I'm fine. Stop worrying, man. That vamp just got lucky. I would have taken him. You need me."

"You're right. I do, but I need you healthy. I'll make you a deal. You can come in with me, but then tomorrow no excuses, you have to see a doc."

Sam huffed, exasperated. "We don't know what we'll be doing tomorrow. This wound was just a scratch. There's nothing wrong with me that a little sleep won't fix."

"All right." Dean lifted his hands off the steering wheel in a gesture of defeat. "Have it your way, but you better not be jiving me."

"I'm not." Dean glanced over at his brother. He sounded sincere. Was he conning Dean or had he fooled himself? "Did Bobby have any theories why vampires are becoming so much more common?"

Sam shrugged. "You know Bobby. He just growls to stop bugging him when he's chewing on something. It appears to be localized to the Northeast. His advice? We should stay in the area for now. He remembers reading something about a connection between witches and vampires. He's trying to find where he found the reference. Normally witches and vampires don't work together."

"No witch-pires to worry about?"

Sam grinned. "Not so far." He pointed to a house down the street. "There it is."

It was past eight in the evening. The last rays of the sinking sun made the white siding glow red. Was that an omen? Red skies at night were supposed to be a sailor's delight, but Dean wouldn't want to bank on it holding true for hunters as well. "I don't like it. That's Peter's Taurus parked in front. No lights on in the place. We go in prepared." He parked the Impala behind Peter's car.

Sam opened the trunk. Dean surveyed the contents and pulled out a shotgun and a machete. Not that they would be any good against a demon, but they made him feel better. Sam had the journal. If they could manage to contain her long enough to use it, he could recite an exorcism. But that was a big if.

"Should we try passing ourselves off as meter repairmen?" Sam asked.

"Without uniforms?" Dean glanced down at his shirt, stained with blood from the vamps. Sam's clothes were worse than his. "I wouldn't let us in. Dude, you need more bandages."

Sam glared at him. "Enough with the Nurse Cherry routine."

"I'm serious, man. I'll say we were in a car accident."

"But what if she's holding them captive? We can't just wander in."

"Then we'll go stealth mode. If we find them having tea and cookies in the parlor, we'll say we thought no one was home and were looking for a phone."

Dean had Sam lean against a tree, looking exhausted—in other words, his natural state these days— while he walked up to the front door and peered in. Part of the living room was visible through the leaded glass door. No lights on. He listened to the door and couldn't hear anything. That was expected. If two innocents were going to wander into a witch's lair, nothing good could result from it. _Idiots_.

Together they skirted the house, checking the windows as they went. When they got to the rear, Dean tried the back door. He cautiously turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. That was inviting. The thought gave him no comfort. He felt it in his gut. It was a trap and they were walking straight into it.

With their guns out, they crept through the kitchen into the main hallway. Now they were picking up faint sounds. Footsteps, a voice. The main hallway was flooded with light coming from stairs leading down to the basement. They'd also found the source of the sounds. Dean checked that Sam was right behind him. He gave one nod and they crossed the threshold to descend the stairs.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal struggled to free himself but he was still tightly pinned to the wall. The witch had raised her hand, keeping her open palm a couple of feet from Peter's chest. Her palm was a fireball of crackling energy as her eyes turned black. Peter began gasping for breath, his face growing red. Sweat poured down his forehead. Neal's own heart raced. She was killing him.

She suddenly turned and swished with preternatural speed back up the stairs. Neal couldn't see what was going on, but there were loud noises—thuds and shouts. The yells sounded like Sam and Dean. He slanted a look at Peter. He was breathing more freely, but apparently was still paralyzed.

With a sickening thud, Sam was hurled to the wall next to Neal, only to be pinned just like he was. Dean was blasted into position a moment later.

Alcy strode forward. "Four uninvited guests? No matter, I can—"

She was interrupted by a blazing flash of light coming from the space in front of the cage. A dense column of scarlet smoke rose from the pentagram. Tendrils of gas lashed and whipped around the room with the ferocity of furies from Hell. Hagen had shrunk to the furthest corner of his cage but he had no place to hide. One of the tendrils plunged into his mouth and appeared to set him on fire. The room reverberated with thunder. The cage door was ripped off its hinges and blasted onto the floor. The smoke turned black, stinging Neal's eyes till they watered so much he couldn't see.

An instant later, the smoke vanished. In the dead quiet of the basement not a trace of it was left. Nothing was even singed.

Hagen strode out of the cage. No, sauntered was more apt. He held out his hands in front of him as if he were admiring his manicure. Then he gazed disdainfully at his orange coveralls. With a sigh he glared at Alcy. "Is this the best you could provide me with?"

"Patience. Your new garb is waiting for you."

Hagen strolled over to the four of them still pinned to the wall. "Don't let it be said that Crowley never returns a favor. You helped this meat-suit even though the wardrobe you provided him was ludicrous beyond measure. We are now even." With a snap of his fingers, their invisible bonds were released, and all four of them tumbled in collapsed heaps onto the floor.

Would Alcy really let them leave? Neal breathed in quick gulps of air. He felt like he had a severe case of the flu. He couldn't get his legs to move properly. The others appeared to have the same difficulty. No one could stand.

She studied Dean for a moment then walked over to Sam. She seized his bandaged arm, making him wince. Blood had seeped through the gauze. Swatting away his attempts to resist, she pressed directly onto the wound till the blood spurted through the gauze. Alcy swiped a finger over it then licked the blood off with quick darting swipes of her tongue. The smile she gave him afterward was the worst of all.

Releasing Sam's arm, she strode over to Hagen, reached a hand into the pocket of her gown, and pulled out a small black velvet pouch. Opening it, she extracted a pinch of umber powder. "Are you ready?"

He nodded then raised a hand. "Before we leave , a little something to remember me by." He snapped his fingers once more as Alcy sprinkled the powder in the center of the pentagram. A bolt of lightning pierced the room, making Neal shield his eyes with his hand. When he could see again, both Alcy and Hagen had vanished.

Neal pushed himself upright as the strength slowly returned to his limbs. His head was still pounding from the crack it took when she slammed him against the wall. But this wasn't the time to lick wounds.

The walls rattled as an explosion rocked the house.

"Move it!" Dean shouted. "This is a death trap." He grabbed Sam who was still on the floor looking dazed. "Snap out of it, Sammy. Run!"

Peter gave Neal a hard shove, propelling him toward the stairs. Smoke began pouring into the basement from the first floor. And heat. Dean and Sam reached the top of the stairs first. 

"Fire!" Dean yelled. "Haul your asses out of there." He pushed Sam in front of him. "The hall's an inferno. Head for the front door. It's closest."

The corridor walls were already being consumed by flames. Were the paintings on fire too? Could he save any of them? The Titian? Dense black smoke was filling the corridor. It was like the entire house had been wired with explosives. The blaze was spreading far too quickly for a normal fire. Neal heard Peter's coughs ahead of him as he began to cough as well. The smoke seared his lungs. All he could hear was the crackling of flames on wood, on canvas. Neal turned back toward the office, but only took a couple of steps before he was yanked back.

"No time!" Peter shouted over the roar of the blaze. "Stay low . . . front door."

Neal struggled out of his grasp and headed for the office. "The Titian! Have to . . . " He started to cough uncontrollably.

He was tackled from behind and sent sprawling onto the floor. He heard Peter's voice in his ear. "Don't make me knock you out. Front door now!"

Peter put an arm around him and dragged him forward. Both fell back, overcome by coughing, only to crawl forward once more on their hands and knees. Peter stayed behind him, shoving him forward if Neal wavered for an instant.

Neal's eyes were streaming so hard he could no longer see anything. But in his mind he watched the flames lick first the frames then the paintings themselves, consuming everything.

Somehow they reached the front door and fresh air. "What took you so long?" Dean demanded. He put an arm around Neal to support him while guiding him a safe distance away. Neal turned to check on Peter and saw that Sam was helping him.

The fire truck and EMTs arrived within minutes. Neal leaned against a tree trunk to watch the destruction of the house. The wood structure burned as if it'd been doused in gasoline. As he watched the walls of the house crumble and collapse, his slim hope of finding anything crumpled in front of him.

Unlike the paintings, they'd escaped with only a few scrapes and bruises. Someone had fitted Neal with an oxygen mask, but he took it off. Dean was over with Sam who was having his arm tended. Peter was talking with the police. Neal clutched the blanket someone had given him and walked over to the Taurus. He stood by the car and tried to reconcile himself to the loss of the paintings.

"Get inside the car, Neal," Peter urged in a low voice, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing more we can do here now. Dean and Sam are heading back to the inn too."

"Do you think we'll find anything?"

Peter hesitated, scanning his face, then shook his head. "Honestly, I'd have to say no. You still have your camera, right?"

Neal nodded.

"Then we'll have your photos. That will have to serve."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Who's Crowley?" Chloe set her glass of beer down on the table and glanced around at the three of them. "Anyone?"

She'd been waiting for them in the reception area of the inn when they walked in. Peter had called her to alert her about what had happened, but not adequately for how they looked. Her face turned white as a ghost when she saw them. But showers and clean clothes had worked miracles.

Afterward they'd gathered in the bar at the inn. Everyone was drinking beer except Neal. He was mourning the loss of the paintings with a Connecticut Chardonnay.

"I called Bobby from our room," Dean replied, gulping down the last of his beer and waving his empty bottle to the bartender. "He'd heard speculation of a crossroads demon going by that name. The demon was thought to be skilled in pyrokinetics."

"You're saying he started the fire?" Peter asked, his eyes narrowing.

Dean nodded. "More than likely. When he snapped his fingers, that's all the fuse that was needed."

"What did he mean by meat-suit?" Neal asked.

"He was referring to Hagen," Sam said. "That's how demons describe the humans they inhabit. That column of smoke you saw? That was the demon Crowley entering Hagen."

"Is there anything of Hagen left?" Chloe asked.

Dean nodded. "He's still inside. If we can exorcise the demon before too much damage is done to Hagen's body, you could get him back."

"I'm not looking forward to explaining that to my superiors," Peter said, grimacing. "Any ideas on how to track Hagen now that he's Crowley the demon?"

"Wait till he makes his next move," Dean said with a shrug. "Not a rat's ass of choice."

"How about Alcy?" Neal asked. "No question she's a witch. Now that she's flown away on her broomstick, do we have to wait for a full moon for her to reappear? Halloween's a long way off."

Dean shook his head disapprovingly. "You should know better than to treat her as a joke. And I'm not convinced she's a witch. She may have used a hex bag, but she's more powerful than any witch we've ever encountered."

"Melissa Pembroke mentioned Scott had sustained a gash on his arm one night," Sam added. "The circumstances surrounding that were strange. The way Alcy licked my blood and tasted Peter and Neal was bizarre. I've never seen a witch with a fondness for blood. Honestly I don't know what we're up against here."

"It appeared to me that she was evaluating each one of us," Peter suggested. "For what purpose?"

"Some weird cult?" Dean guessed. "You said she went on and on about Neal's jawline."

Neal groaned and slouched deeper into his seat.

"We need to find out more about her," Sam said. "But that won't be easy. We don't have much to go on."

"I may be able to help," Chloe offered. "The witchcraft chat groups I belong to occasionally post speculation about rumors. I always assumed they were mere fantasies. But now? I'll pay closer attention. The forums have a lot of chatter now because we're approaching Litha."

"What's Litha?" Peter asked, taking a swig of beer.

"That's the Celtic term for the summer solstice. Several of the Wiccan covens want to hold a festival this year."

Sam looked troubled. "You're playing with fire when you mix with covens."

"I'll be careful," she insisted, "but they provide essential background material. When I conceived this novel, I had no notion that witches could be so powerful. The plot's becoming darker by the hour. Zoe and Ravensword will have to work closely together if they're to survive. You need me."

There was no longer a reason to stay in Simsbury. Peter had left his contact information with the police and would fill out the report forms back in New York. They planned to drive back the next morning.

"We'll take off too," Dean said.

"So soon?" Chloe asked, looking disappointed. "I don't suppose I could convince you to stay an extra day or two?"

He challenged her with a mocking look. "Any particular reason other than the obvious one?"

"You investigate ghosts, don't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"That tavern we visited Saturday night? Locals say it's haunted by the spirit of Abigail Pettibone. She lived in the late 1700s. Her husband was a whaling captain, prone to long journeys away from home. Abigail whiled away the months by taking lovers. One fateful night the captain arrived unexpectedly and discovered her with a lover in bed. He killed them both with an axe. Supposedly ever since she's been haunting the tavern."

Sam snorted. "That's just a story they made up for tourists. Has anyone ever been hurt by this ghost?"

"Not to my knowledge," she admitted.

"Chloe's right," Dean said, adopting a serious expression. "We need to investigate this thoroughly, particularly at night. Maybe a couple of nights."

**House in the Woods. May 15, 2005. Sunday night.**

"You've done well, ladies." Crowley walked over to the gilded mirror on the wall and gazed smugly at his reflection. The black suit had just a hint of blood overtones. The dark maroon tie went well with his hair. Yes, he could work this. "This meat-suit is so much more handsome than that dull literary critic I possessed. The man had no useful attributes. He was losing his hair. He'd become tiresome even if the women did throw themselves on him . . . and the men." He shrugged and smiled. "I should have even greater success now."

Crowley turned to look at "his girls." The sisters were lounging on velvet settees in the conservatory. Electra had dressed her hair in an elaborate chignon. She looked like a haughty ice queen set among the pots of orchids that were scattered about the room. Now Maia, on the other hand, was more approachable. He was quite attracted to her. Would she have any interest in a demon?

Crowley strolled over to the sideboard. He picked up the crystal decanter and poured a generous amount of Glencraig into a glass for himself. A thoughtful gesture of Electra to supply him with his favorite Scotch.

The sisters' love of blood was intriguing. They weren't vampires but relied on the lowlifes to perform the harvesting. The girls savored blood much as others appreciated wine. He'd been told they considered each human a distinct vintage. Electra was particularly fussy for surgical extraction techniques. Her demands were causing rumblings of discontent among the vampires. Was she being influenced by the latest FAA guidelines? No hack and slash for the ice queen.

Crowley had once asked Maia to explain their fascination with blood. She'd talked about it being their preferred method to establish a link with their "chosen ones." What a euphemistic term. Why didn't she just call them slaves or victims? That's what they were.

Crowley heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Alcyone enter the salon. He poured out some of the ruby-red liquid into a snifter and handed it to her.

"Finally. Take a seat," Electra ordered imperiously.

Alcyone yawned. "You've become even bossier in my absence." She sat down next to Maia. "How do you survive living with her?"

Electra shot her a glare that would have frozen a mortal's blood to ice. "After the mess you made in Simsbury, you'd be well advised to tread carefully."

Alcyone brushed off her warning with a bored gesture and examined her long nails.

Electra and Alcy in a catfight? This should be interesting. He took a seat by the grand piano and settled back to enjoy the show.

Maia looked at her sister with big eyes waiting for her to let loose. When she did, Electra's voice had deepened. The chill in the atmosphere was palpable. "Pembroke had potential. You could have feasted on him for decades. His talent was just beginning to emerge."

Alcyone shrugged. "I'll find someone else. You know my taste is exquisite. Need I remind you? Titian, Shelley, Constable, Yeats, they were all my protégés, not yours."

"Yes, by all means bring up Shelley," Electra mocked. "What was the result? You were unable to control your appetite and destroyed him before his potential was achieved. I know you have the discipline. You proved it with Titian." She sat back and sighed. "You were at your height then. You were with Titian for decades, controlling, refining, feeding. Through you we were all stronger. No one suspected what you were doing, and more importantly, Titian never realized he was bound to you. Titian is a superb example of how we should act."

Alcyone smiled maliciously. She was a saucy little scorpion, that one. Her nickname Alcy suited her. "I'm glad to hear you acknowledge it. Titian painted masterpieces— _Salome_ , _Woman with a Mirror_ , and so many others—to honor _me_. I was his ideal beauty, his muse. He was my puppet. You were far less successful with Goya. He began to sense what was happening to him. Those paintings of his were too close to the mark. And look what you did to Mozart. Consumed at such a young age. Tsk-tsk."

Electra shrugged off her criticism. "Perhaps. His blood was a vintage I still taste in my dreams." She stroked the leaves of the orchid on the side table next to her. Its leaves appeared to stretch out to her touch. Orchids were throughout the house with more growing in the surrounding woods. Crowley had heard rumors about the sisters' power over the flowers. Alcyone had shown him the pogonia she'd used in her hex bag to teleport Hagen. The flower looked like an open mouth with fangs to draw the unsuspecting victim down its throat.

"Humans are so frail," Electra murmured. "I've learned to control my appetite since then." She glared at Alcy. "You, on the other hand, are regressing. You need to regain the discipline you had with Titian and Yeats. You tapped them for years, patiently sampling at discreet intervals, allowing them time to recover. As a result we have their masterpieces, scattered in galleries—Venus flytraps to seduce the unwary artist." She glanced over at Crowley. "Like his meat-suit. We wouldn't have learned about Hagen if he hadn't forged _Witches' Sabbath_."

Crowley was quick to lick her boots. He didn't fancy starting his new incarnation with her highness upset at him. "She's right. And now I can benefit from his skill as if it were my own, which of course it is now. You could say Hagen and I are joined at the hip."

"I initially thought Hagen would be more intriguing for his creativity," Electra added, "but he lacked originality."

Crowley raised his glass to her. "His loss, my gain. He makes the perfect meat-suit."

She tossed a nod in his direction then fixed her icy stare back on Alcy. "Thanks to your indiscretion, the FBI is aware of you. Worse, hunters have you on their radar. For centuries we've prided ourselves on no one being aware of our presence. Your indiscretion threatens to destroy that, and at the worst possible time. In a little over a month the pure-bloods will arrive. Nothing must interfere with the ceremony. You, however, won't be here to enjoy it. You must leave and establish a new identity."

Alcy shrugged. "The growth of the covens? Our cultivation of the Wiccans? The rise of the vampires? It was inevitable that the hunters would hear of us, but I daresay it will be a long time before they realize who we are." She paused to take a sip of blood. "I believe I shall return to Venice," she mused. "I haven't been there since the sixteenth century. I hear there have been a few changes, but the art scene provides intriguing prospects. My new name will be Shaula."

Crowley chuckled. _Good one, Alcy_! Who else would choose to name herself after one of the stars in the stinger of the constellation Scorpius? If ever there was a scorpion come to life, it was Alcy. He'd grown rather fond of Alcy Lancaster. The vessel she'd chosen had been a seductive one. Which new vessel would she pick? Crowley had no doubt her choice would be equally inspired. He wished he'd known her when she acted as Titian's muse. He'd first met her when she was Alse Young back in the 1600s. Then, as now, she had difficulty in controlling her appetite. What a minx she'd been—America's first witch to be executed, or so they thought. But whether she called herself Salome the Seductress or Shaula, she'd always be Alcy to him.

The scorpion stinger herself turned to face Crowley. "As for you, you're lucky I'm leaving." Her eyes flashed with anger. "You destroyed my home. That's of no consequence. But those paintings? They were irreplaceable. All painted by my protégés. Tokens of appreciation for the gifts I bestowed upon them. I should kill you now." She raised a hand but Electra strode forward and swatted it down.

"I mourn the loss of those masterpieces with you, but Crowley didn't know about them. His assistance is vital. Let that remind you of the intended consequences which arise when you attract attention. If your hunger for Pembroke hadn't been insatiable, the FBI agents would never have discovered you or your home. You would still have Pembroke to amuse you, your paintings would be safe, and you wouldn't need to relocate."

Alcyone rose and refilled her glass with blood. "It's time for the vampires to rise up again in Venice. One of the pure-bloods can join me there." She sprawled on a velvet settee and raised her glass to Maia. "I'm not the only one who's been indulging. Baby sister's been greedy too." She gave Maia an appraising smile. "I tasted your prize. Delicious, I must say. If you could only get him to give up hunting and focus on poetry, he would be quite delectable."

_Maia chose a hunter? Naughty, naughty._ Crowley studied Maia for her reaction. She appeared quite smug like the cat who'd swallowed a mouse and the tail was still wiggling from her lips. Maia's choice was a curious one. Crowley understood that Electra and her sisters were only interested in artists, poets, and similar wimps. What had Maia seen in the hunter? Did that moose of a man possess a hidden side? Was Bullwinkle a poet?

Alcy took a long, lazy sip of blood. "You can't hide your sampling from me. How many times have you visited him?"

"He is lovely, isn't he?" Maia gazed dreamily at the stained glass windows. "His potential is enormous. I haven't been so excited over someone since Christopher Marlowe."

_And I wager his potential as a poet isn't the only part of him you're interested in._ Crowley leaned back against the piano and waited for Electra's reaction.

Alcy chuckled. "You mean you've been restraining yourself since the 1500s? Sister, it's time to have some fun. You won't catch me doing that." She turned to face Electra. "I suspect you haven't been able to resist dipping into your new protégé either. He was luscious. You were right about his jawline. No wonder you call him your beautiful boy."

"Enough!" Electra screamed.

_Now they've done it_. Crowley watched in admiration as Electra transformed herself into a spectral presence ten feet tall, her eyes glowing with an inner fire, her limbs dissolving into blue gas. "Both of you must exercise restraint or face the consequences." Her voice had deepened to a bass, sounding like Zeus's thunder. _Girls, you better behave. Big sister's on the warpath._

Electra stretched her arms out wide and lightning bolts zigzagged across the chamber. With a long, slow exhale she gradually reverted to her normal form. "Remember who I am and fear me."

With a smirk, Crowley raised his glass to her. Who could forget the goddess who'd created both witches and vampires?

She looked at him disdainfully. "You too. I've made you King of Hell, but never forget you serve me."

Crowley made a low bow. "They worship you now as the Moon Goddess but someday the world will know and fear you once more by your true name—Astrena, Queen of the Stars, First among Firsts."

**Simsbury 1820 House. May 16, 2005. Monday morning.**

When Peter checked out of the inn, he paid for Dean and Sam's room as well. If the Bureau balked at the claim, he'd pay it himself. He hadn't sorted out yet how he'd describe the Winchesters' consulting service. The simplest would be not to mention them. The discount rate Chloe had obtained for the rooms was enough of a bargain, it was a small price to pay for their help. If Dean and Sam hadn't charged in, the witch might have killed both him and Neal. Peter could still feel the intensity of the blaze when she directed her hand at him. It felt like she was setting him on fire.

Now they were on their way home. They'd stopped at Sage's shop to pick up some goat cheese for El. Peter switched on the cruise control and eased his foot off the accelerator. He glanced over at Neal who had been unusually quiet all morning. "Are you still thinking about those paintings?"

He nodded, staring moodily out of the window. "I looked them up on the internet. That Titian resembles the self-portrait that's in the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin. It's lost to the world now. That Constable could have been a self-portrait too. The Shelley painting was most probably painted by Amelia Curran, a friend of his. She painted several portraits of him but I was unable to find any that matched this one. It could have been an unknown work." Neal groaned, shaking his head. "And I couldn't save any of them."

 "Don't torture yourself. We barely escaped the inferno ourselves. The police will let us know if they find any traces of the paintings, but when I talked with them this morning they said the house is a total loss. Whatever mysteries it may have contained have most likely been destroyed along with the house."

"I couldn't find any reports of stolen paintings which match their descriptions. Sometimes old estates have paintings hanging on their walls for centuries and they have no idea what the paintings are or who painted them. That's occurring less and less these days, but it's the only explanation I could come up with. According to her passport record, Alcy traveled extensively overseas. She may have acquired them there or through agents."

"When we get back to the office, notify Interpol on them. You should also contact Melissa about her husband's portrait."

"He didn't have any self-portraits in his studio. Did Alcy ask him to paint it for her? I doubt Melissa knew about it, and it may simply add to her pain, but I can send her my photo." Neal turned back to the window. Normally he was better at hiding his feelings but he was making no attempt now. He looked more tortured by the loss of the paintings than Peter would have expected.

"Don't beat yourself up over them. Tell yourself they weren't originals. You don't seriously believe unknown masterpieces would have existed in a house in Windsor, even if the owner was a witch? My money's on Hagen having copied them for her."

"But why those portraits?"

"Perhaps they were artists she admired?"

"I guess that's as likely a scenario as any, but what about Scott's portrait?"

"You're not thinking clearly. She could have paid Scott to paint his portrait for her. That doesn't necessarily have any relation to the other works in the office."

Neal nodded absently. He'd have to come to terms on his own. Peter was glad they'd be leaving for London in a week. That Interpol trip couldn't have come at a better time. It would provide Neal something else to focus on. "Why don't you put on some music? Something you like for a change."

Neal gave a brief chuckle over that and thumbed through his tapes.

The dirge he put on would have made anyone morose. "Is that what you feel like? Should I call your aunt and arrange a therapy session?"

"It's called 'Fade Away.' I'm holding a memorial service for those paintings, and no, please don't call Noelle. I'll get over it . . . eventually." He glanced over at Peter. "What exactly did the witch say to you when she got in your face?"

"She was taunting me. Asked me if I were anything special. Guess she didn't think so. She didn't go crazy over my jawline like she did yours."

Neal winced. "Please, don't remind me."

"Hey, don't knock it. She was ready to kill me. You she would have kept around just to admire your bone structure."

Neal rolled his eyes. "You won't tell the team at work what she said, I hope?"

He chuckled. "I'll spare you. I haven't decided how much to say about any of the events that occurred. The only evidence of Hagen that we have is the photos we took. We have no photos of Alcy. I expect I'll report that Hagen was held captive in Alcy Lancaster's house. I can make a case that she was mentally deranged. She set the house on fire to kill us as well as Hagen in an act of self-immolation."

"Or you could tell them we found the Dutchman only to have him disappear once more into the fog."

 

* * *

**_Notes_** _: For the fire scene, I was inspired by Neal's reaction to the warehouse fire in the season 2 episode "Under the Radar" when he believed art masterpieces had been destroyed. Pettibone's Tavern is an actual place and supposedly still haunted by the ghost of Abigail Pettibone. Dean must not have been able to get rid of it. Hmm. Could he have been distracted?_

_As Peter and Neal head home, many in the States are preparing to do the same. Thanksgiving will be held in a few days, and I'd like to express my thanks to all of you for reading and my special appreciation for Penna dispensing beta wisdom for these four chapters. If you're looking for Thanksgiving fiction to read, Neal celebrated his first Thanksgiving with Peter and El in The Queen's Jewels (Chapters 14-15). Penna recently posted a vignette called "Homecoming" which is also appropriate for the season._

_But wait, there's more! On November 25 she'll post a new vignette called "Magic Trick." The story begins with Neal and Peter's drive back to New York from Connecticut. Consider this a delicious Thanksgiving dessert to Witches' Sabbath. Penna's taken some of the events in this story and whirled them into fluffy, delectable goodness that only Caffrey Conversation's master chef knows how to prepare. You're in for a very special treat. Don't miss it!_

_Both she and I enjoy writing about road trips. They're the subject of her new blog post: "Road trips with Peter and Neal." I wrote about Electra, Maia, and Alcyone for our blog. Those twisted sisters will be making a return appearance in the next Crossed Lines story, "Fireflies at Midnight," when El, Mozzie, and Satchmo will also be along for the adventure._

_Happy Thanksgiving everyone!_

**_Upcoming Stories_** _:_

_\-- Magic Trick: a new vignette by Penna Nomen, to be posted on November 25. The story is set immediately after the conclusion of Witches' Sabbath.  
  
\-- Arkham Files: The Locked Room. Sequel to Visions from Beyond. To be posted beginning on December 7. The action picks up with news of a dangerous cult operating in Arkham. Diana has added a new character to the series, a villain with whom you're familiar. If you want a sneak peek, you'll find him pinned to the Arkham Files Pinterest board. A one-page summary to Visions from Beyond is on our blog. The link is on the Arkham Files page.  
  
\-- Echoes of a Violin. Sequel to Raphael's Dragon. It will be posted starting in late January. __An arch-enemy will take advantage of Neal and Peter's trip to Europe to place them in his crosshairs._  
  
_\-- Fireflies at Midnight. Sequel to Witches' Sabbath._

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Witches' Sabbath board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


End file.
